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Thou Art enough for me

Thou Art Enough For MeTo clear the doubts within, i chatted with a few wise men, asked them the most beautiful thing they had seen, and here is how they came clean.

Some men say that they have seen angels, others saw Cleopatra's, some incarnations of Venus.But i have seen thee and Thou Art Enough For Me.

The mere glance of your hair, the mere smell of your scent, enchants my soul, and scorches me as a whole.

Its not just the way look baby, its not just the way you make me feel, its the tingles our bodies gather, its the sweet sensations when we are together.

Your dazzling smile may make, even Sirius buy a retirement cake.your intoxicating eyes might, give even Mr. Jack Daniels the fright.Ma'llady please step out of you palace this evening, and give this night a wondrous meaning, Because without seeing the brilliance of your light, the moon might just not come out tonight.

A lad came and said that, he had found Shangri La, Other found El Dorado, and a godsman found heaven, But i have found thee and Thou Art Enough For Me

Hast Thou A Song For A Flower.

I.

HAST thou a song for a flower,Such as, if breathed in its ear,Would waken in beauty's own bowerThe spirit most fit to be there?Then, minstrel, I challenge thy power--Such song, if thou hast, sing it here!--Here, where the breeze o'erwearied,With his travel o'er ocean creeps,And on the green leaf by her lattice,Sinks languidly down and sleeps.

II.

For her the sweet music thou bringestMust in a true spirit be wrought,And the passion of mine thou singestMust be pure as the child's first thought.If none such within thee springest,Away, for thy presence is naught.Far better the breeze, at waking,Should tell her that hopeless I come,With itself, to the leaf at her lattice,And laid me down, dreaming but dumb.

Wilt Thou Take Me For Thy Slave?

Wilt thou take me for thy slave,With my folly and my love?Wilt thou take me for the bondsman of thy pride?Thou who dearer art to me than all the world beside;For I love thee as no other man can love.

Wilt thou take me to thy soul,For the truth which thou shalt prove?Wilt thou clothe me with the riches of thy care?Thou who dearer art to me than gold and jewels rare;For I love thee as no other man can love.

Wilt thou take me for thy king,While the sun and stars shall move?Wilt thou pay me back the homage I have given?Oh thou dearer unto me than sun and stars and heaven!For I love thee as no other man can love.

Dreams Are Coming True For me

Whatever I believe inDreams are coming true for meAll I do is be patient and waitI work hard at it, with little help and support it happenI'm a chef and a writer at last Whatever I want to be All I have to do isTry my best and put hundred percent into what I doDon't let people get in my wayI want work so hard to achieve my dreamsKeep trying and trying and it be worthwhileI can do it and not let anyone get in my wayI'm strong and idependable I can see myself in ten yearsThat I achieve my career and I reach my goalsI believe in myselfI don't try to get to excited becauseIt won't work and be back luck soWatch out what you say, do or actDreams are coming true for meDreams are coming true for me

'And thou shalt take their part to-night, Weep and write.A curse from the depths of womanhoodIs very salt, and bitter, and good.'

So thus I wrote, and mourned indeed, What all may read.And thus, as was enjoined on me,I send it over the Western Sea.

The Curse

Because ye have broken your own chain With the strainOf brave men climbing a Nation's height,Yet thence bear down with brand and thong On souls of others, -- for this wrong This is the curse. Write.

Because yourselves are standing straight In the stateOf Freedom's foremost acolyte,Yet keep calm footing all the time On writhing bond-slaves, -- for this crime This is the curse. Write.

Because ye prosper in God's name, With a claimTo honor in the old world's sight,Yet do the fiend's work perfectly In strangling martyrs, -- for this lie This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while kings conspireRound the people's smouldering fire, And, warm for your part,Shall never dare -- O shame!To utter the thought into flame Which burns at your heart. This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while nations striveWith the bloodhounds, die or survive, Drop faint from their jaws,Or throttle them backward to death;And only under your breath Shall favor the cause. This is the curse. Write.

Ye shall watch while strong men drawThe nets of feudal law To strangle the weak;And, counting the sin for a sin,Your soul shall be sadder within Than the word ye shall speak. This is the curse. Write.

When good men are praying erectThat Christ may avenge His elect And deliver the earth,The prayer in your ears, said low,Shall sound like the tramp of a foeThat's driving you forth. This is the curse. Write.

When wise men give you their praise,They shall praise in the heat of the phrase, As if carried too far.When ye boast your own charters kept true,Ye shall blush; for the thing which ye do Derides what ye are. This is the curse. Write.

When fools cast taunts at your gate,Your scorn ye shall somewhat abate As ye look o'er the wall;For your conscience, tradition, and nameExplode with a deadlier blame Than the worst of them all. This is the curse. Write.

Go, wherever ill deeds shall be done,Go, plant your flag in the sun Beside the ill-doers!And recoil from clenching the curseOf God's witnessing Universe With a curse of yours. This is the curse. Write.

The Noble Moringer

I.O, will you hear a knightly tale of old Bohemian day,It was the noble Moringer in wedlock bed he lay;He halsed and kiss'd his dearest dame, that was as sweet as May,And said, 'Now, lady of my heart, attend the words I say.

II.''Tis I have vow'd a pilgrimage unto a distant shrine,And I must seek Saint Thomas-land, and leave the land that's mine;Here shalt thou dwell the while in state, so thou wilt pledge thy fay,That thou for my return wilt wait seven twelvemonths and a day.'

IV.Out spoke the noble Moringer, 'Of that have thou no care,There's many a valiant gentleman of me holds living fair;The trustiest shall rule my land, my vassals and my state,And be a guardian tried and true to thee, my lovely mate.

V.'As Christian-man, I needs must keep the vow which I have plight,When I am far in foreign land, remember thy true knight;And cease, my dearest dame, to grieve, for vain were sorrow now,But grant thy Moringer his leave, since God hath heard his vow.'

VI.It was the noble Moringer from bed he made him boune,And met him there his Chamberlain, with ewer and with gown:He flung the mantle on his back, 'twas furr'd with miniver,He dipp'd his hand in water cold, and bathed his forehead fair.

IX. The noble Baron turn'd him round, his heart was full of care,His gallant Esquire stood him nigh, he was Marstetten's heir,To whom he spoke right anxiously, 'Thou trusty squire to me,Wilt thou receive this weighty trust when I am o'er the sea?

X.'To watch and ward my castle strong, and to protect my land,And to the hunting or the host to lead my vassal band;And pledge thee for my Lady's faith till seven long years are gone,And guard her as Our Lady dear was guarded by Saint John.'

XI.Marstetten's heir was kind and true, but fiery, hot, and young,And readily he answer made with too presumptuous tongue;'My noble lord, cast care away, and on your journey wend,And trust this charge to me until your pilgrimage have end.

XII.'Rely upon my plighted faith, which shall be truly tried,To guard your lands, and ward your towers, and with your vassals ride;And for your lovely Lady's faith, so virtuous and so dear,I'll gage my head it knows no change, be absent thirty year.'

XIII.The noble Moringer took cheer when thus he heard him speak,And doubt forsook his troubled brow, and sorrow left his cheek;A long adieu he bids to all - hoists topsails, and away,And wanders in Saint Thomas-land seven twelve-months and a day.

XIV.It was the noble Moringer within an orchard slept,When on the Baron's slumbering sense a boding vision crept;And whisper'd in his ear a voice, ''Tis time, Sir Knight, to wake,Thy lady and thy heritage another master take.

XV.'Thy tower another banner knows, thy steeds another rein,And stoop them to another's will thy gallant vassal train;And she, the Lady of thy love, so faithful once and fair,This night within thy fathers' hall she weds Marstetten's heir.'

XVI.It is the noble Moringer starts up and tears his beard,'Oh would that I had ne'er been born! what tidings have I heard!To lose my lordship and my lands the less would be my care,But, God! that e'er a squire untrue should wed my Lady fair.

XVII.'O good Saint Thomas, hear,' he pray'd, 'my patron Saint art thou,A traitor robs me of my land even while I pay my vow!My wife he brings to infamy that was so pure of name,And I am far in foreign land, and must endure the shame.'

XVIII.It was the good Saint Thomas, then, who heard his pilgrim's prayer,And sent a sleep so deep and dead that it o'erpower'd his care;He waked in fair Bohemian land outstretch'd beside a rill,High on the right a castle stood, low on the left a mill.

XIX.The Moringer he started up as one from spell unbound,And dizzy with surprise and joy gazed wildly all around;'I know my fathers' ancient towers, the mill, the stream I know,Now blessed be my patron Saint who cheer'd his pilgrim's woe!'

XX.He leant upon his pilgrim staff, and to the mill he drew,So alter'd was his goodly form that none their master knew;The Baron to the miller said, 'Good friend, for charity,Tell a poor palmer in your land what tidings may there be?'

XXI.The miller answered him again, 'He knew of little news,Save that the Lady of the land did a new bridegroom choose;Her husband died in distant land, such is the constant word,His death sits heavy on our souls, he was a worthy Lord.

XXII.'Of him I held the little mill which wins we living free,God rest the Baron in his grave, he still was kind to me!And when Saint Martin's tide comes round, and millers take their toll,The priest that prays for Moringer shall have both cope and stole.'

XXIII.It was the noble Moringer to climb the hill began,And stood before the bolted gate a woe and weary man;'Now help me, every saint in heaven that can compassion take,To gain the entrance of my hall this woeful match to break.'

XXIV.His very knock it sounded sad, his call was sad and slow,For heart and head, and voice and hand, were heavy all with woe;And to the warder thus he spoke; 'Friend, to thy Lady say,A pilgrim from Saint Thomas-land craves harbour for a day.

XXV.'I've wander'd many a weary step, my strength is wellnigh done,And if she turn me from her gate I'll see no morrow's sun;I pray, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, a pilgrim's bed and dole,And for the sake of Moringer's, her once-beloved husband's soul.'

XXVI.It was the stalwart warder then he came his dame before,'A pilgrim, worn and travel-toil'd, stands at the castle-door;And prays, for sweet Saint Thomas' sake, for harbour and for dole,And for the sake of Moringer, thy noble husband's soul.'

XXVII.The Lady's gentle heart was moved, 'Do up the gate,' she said,'And bid the wanderer welcome be to banquet and to bed;And since he names my husband's name, so that he lists to stay,These towers shall be his harbourage a twelvemonth and a day.'

XXVIII.It was the stalwart warder then undid the portal broad,It was the noble Moringer that o'er the threshold strode;'And have thou thanks, kind heaven,' he said, 'though from a man of sin,That the true lord stands here once more his castle gate within.'

XXIX.Then up the halls paced Moringer, his step was sad and slow;It sat full heavy on his heart, none seem'd their Lord to know;He sat him on a lowly bench, oppress'd with woe and wrong,Short space he sat, but ne'er to him seem'd little space so long.

XXX.Now spent was day, and feasting o'er, and come was evening hour,The time was nigh when new-made brides retire to nuptial bower;'Our castle's wont,' a brides-man said, 'hath been both firm and long,No guest to harbour in our halls till he shall chant a song.'

XXXI.Then spoke the youthful bridegroom there as he sat by the bride,'My merry minstrel folk,' quoth he, 'lay shalm and harp aside;Our pilgrim guest must sing a lay, the castle's rule to hold,And well his guerdon will I pay with garment and with gold.'-

XXXII.'Chill flows the lay of frozen age,' 'twas thus the pilgrim sung,'Nor golden meed nor garment gay, unlocks his heavy tongue;Once did I sit, thou bridegroom gay, at board as rich as thine,And by my side as fair a bride with all her charms was mine.

XXXIII.'But time traced furrows on my face, and I grew silver-hair'd,For locks of brown, and cheeks of youth, she left this brow and beard;One rich, but now a palmer poor, I tread life's latest stage,And mingle with your bridal mirth the lay of frozen age.'

XXXIV.It was the noble Lady there this woful lay that hears,And for the aged pilgrim's grief her eye was dimm'd with tears;She bade her gallant cupbearer a golden beaker take,And bear it to the palmer poor to quaff it for her sake.

XXXV.It was the noble Moringer that dropp'd amid the wineA bridal ring of burning gold so costly and so fine:Now listen, gentles, to my song, it tells you but the sooth,'Twas with that very ring of gold he pledged his bridal truth.

XXXVI.Then to the cupbearer he said, 'Do me one kindly deed,And should my better days return, full rich shall be thy meed;Bear back the golden cup again to yonder bride so gay,And crave her of her courtesy to pledge the palmer grey.'

XXXVII.The cupbearer was courtly bred, nor was the boon denied,The golden cup he took again, and bore it to the bride;'Lady,' he said, 'your reverend guest sends this, and bids me pray,That, in thy noble courtesy, thou pledge the palmer grey.'

XXXVIII.The ring hath caught the Lady's eye, she views it close and near,Then might you hear her shriek aloud, 'The Moringer is here!'Then might you see her start from seat, while tears in torrents fell,But whether 'twas for joy or woe, the ladies best can tell.

XXXIX.But loud she utter'd thanks to Heaven, and every saintly power,That had return'd the Moringer before the midnight hour;And loud she utter'd vow on vow, that never was there bride,That had like her preserved her troth, or been so sorely tried.

XL.'Yes, here I claim the praise,' she said, 'to constant matrons due,Who keep the troth that they have plight, so steadfastly and true;For count the term howe'er you will, so that you count aright,Seven twelve-months and a day are out when bells toll twelve to-night.'

XLI.It was Marstetten then rose up, his falchion there he drew,He kneel'd before the Moringer, and down his weapon threw;'My oath and knightly faith are broke,' these were the words he said,'Then take, my liege, thy vassal's sword, and take thy vassal's head.'

XLII.The noble Moringer he smiled, and then aloud did say,'He gathers wisdom that hath roam'd seven twelve-months and a day;My daughter now hath fifteen years, fame speaks her sweet and fair,I give her for the bride you lose, and name her for my heir.

XLIII.'The young bridegroom hath youthful bride, the old bridegroom the old,Whose faith was kept till term and tide so punctually were told;But blessings on the warder kind that oped my castle gate,For had I come at morrow tide, I came a day too late.'

The Princess (part 7)

So was their sanctuary violated, So their fair college turned to hospital; At first with all confusion: by and bySweet order lived again with other laws: A kindlier influence reigned; and everywhere Low voices with the ministering hand Hung round the sick: the maidens came, they talked, They sang, they read: till she not fair began To gather light, and she that was, became Her former beauty treble; and to and fro With books, with flowers, with Angel offices, Like creatures native unto gracious act, And in their own clear element, they moved.

But sadness on the soul of Ida fell, And hatred of her weakness, blent with shame. Old studies failed; seldom she spoke: but oft Clomb to the roofs, and gazed alone for hours On that disastrous leaguer, swarms of menDarkening her female field: void was her use, And she as one that climbs a peak to gaze O'er land and main, and sees a great black cloud Drag inward from the deeps, a wall of night, Blot out the slope of sea from verge to shore, And suck the blinding splendour from the sand, And quenching lake by lake and tarn by tarn Expunge the world: so fared she gazing there; So blackened all her world in secret, blank And waste it seemed and vain; till down she came, And found fair peace once more among the sick.

And twilight dawned; and morn by morn the lark Shot up and shrilled in flickering gyres, but I Lay silent in the muffled cage of life: And twilight gloomed; and broader-grown the bowers Drew the great night into themselves, and Heaven, Star after Star, arose and fell; but I, Deeper than those weird doubts could reach me, lay Quite sundered from the moving Universe, Nor knew what eye was on me, nor the hand That nursed me, more than infants in their sleep.

But Psyche tended Florian: with her oft, Melissa came; for Blanche had gone, but left Her child among us, willing she should keep Court-favour: here and there the small bright head, A light of healing, glanced about the couch, Or through the parted silks the tender face Peeped, shining in upon the wounded man With blush and smile, a medicine in themselves To wile the length from languorous hours, and draw The sting from pain; nor seemed it strange that soon He rose up whole, and those fair charities Joined at her side; nor stranger seemed that hears So gentle, so employed, should close in love, Than when two dewdrops on the petals shake To the same sweet air, and tremble deeper down, And slip at once all-fragrant into one.

Less prosperously the second suit obtained At first with Psyche. Not though Blanche had sworn That after that dark night among the fields She needs must wed him for her own good name; Not though he built upon the babe restored; Nor though she liked him, yielded she, but feared To incense the Head once more; till on a day When Cyril pleaded, Ida came behind Seen but of Psyche: on her foot she hung A moment, and she heard, at which her face A little flushed, and she past on; but each Assumed from thence a half-consent involved In stillness, plighted troth, and were at peace.

Nor only these: Love in the sacred halls Held carnival at will, and flying struck With showers of random sweet on maid and man. Nor did her father cease to press my claim, Nor did mine own, now reconciled; nor yet Did those twin-brothers, risen again and whole; Nor Arac, satiate with his victory.

But I lay still, and with me oft she sat: Then came a change; for sometimes I would catch Her hand in wild delirium, gripe it hard, And fling it like a viper off, and shriek 'You are not Ida;' clasp it once again, And call her Ida, though I knew her not, And call her sweet, as if in irony, And call her hard and cold which seemed a truth: And still she feared that I should lose my mind, And often she believed that I should die: Till out of long frustration of her care, And pensive tendance in the all-weary noons, And watches in the dead, the dark, when clocks Throbbed thunder through the palace floors, or called On flying Time from all their silver tongues-- And out of memories of her kindlier days, And sidelong glances at my father's grief, And at the happy lovers heart in heart-- And out of hauntings of my spoken love, And lonely listenings to my muttered dream, And often feeling of the helpless hands, And wordless broodings on the wasted cheek-- From all a closer interest flourished up, Tenderness touch by touch, and last, to these, Love, like an Alpine harebell hung with tears By some cold morning glacier; frail at first And feeble, all unconscious of itself, But such as gathered colour day by day.

Last I woke sane, but well-nigh close to death For weakness: it was evening: silent light Slept on the painted walls, wherein were wrought Two grand designs; for on one side arose The women up in wild revolt, and stormed At the Oppian Law. Titanic shapes, they crammed The forum, and half-crushed among the rest A dwarf-like Cato cowered. On the other side Hortensia spoke against the tax; behind, A train of dames: by axe and eagle sat, With all their foreheads drawn in Roman scowls, And half the wolf's-milk curdled in their veins, The fierce triumvirs; and before them paused Hortensia pleading: angry was her face.

I saw the forms: I knew not where I was: They did but look like hollow shows; nor more Sweet Ida: palm to palm she sat: the dew Dwelt in her eyes, and softer all her shape And rounder seemed: I moved: I sighed: a touch Came round my wrist, and tears upon my hand: Then all for languor and self-pity ran Mine down my face, and with what life I had, And like a flower that cannot all unfold, So drenched it is with tempest, to the sun, Yet, as it may, turns toward him, I on her Fixt my faint eyes, and uttered whisperingly:

'If you be, what I think you, some sweet dream, I would but ask you to fulfil yourself: But if you be that Ida whom I knew, I ask you nothing: only, if a dream, Sweet dream, be perfect. I shall die tonight. Stoop down and seem to kiss me ere I die.'

I could no more, but lay like one in trance, That hears his burial talked of by his friends, And cannot speak, nor move, nor make one sign, But lies and dreads his doom. She turned; she paused; She stooped; and out of languor leapt a cry; Leapt fiery Passion from the brinks of death; And I believed that in the living world My spirit closed with Ida's at the lips; Till back I fell, and from mine arms she rose Glowing all over noble shame; and all Her falser self slipt from her like a robe, And left her woman, lovelier in her mood Than in her mould that other, when she came From barren deeps to conquer all with love; And down the streaming crystal dropt; and she Far-fleeted by the purple island-sides, Naked, a double light in air and wave, To meet her Graces, where they decked her out For worship without end; nor end of mine, Stateliest, for thee! but mute she glided forth, Nor glanced behind her, and I sank and slept, Filled through and through with Love, a happy sleep.

Deep in the night I woke: she, near me, held A volume of the Poets of her land: There to herself, all in low tones, she read.

'Now sleeps the crimson petal, now the white; Nor waves the cypress in the palace walk; Nor winks the gold fin in the porphyry font: The fire-fly wakens: wake thou with me.

Now droops the milkwhite peacock like a ghost, And like a ghost she glimmers on to me.

Now lies the Earth all Danaë to the stars, And all thy heart lies open unto me.

Now lies the silent meteor on, and leaves A shining furrow, as thy thoughts in me.

Now folds the lily all her sweetness up, And slips into the bosom of the lake: So fold thyself, my dearest, thou, and slip Into my bosom and be lost in me.'

I heard her turn the page; she found a small Sweet Idyl, and once more, as low, she read:

'Come down, O maid, from yonder mountain height: What pleasure lives in height (the shepherd sang) In height and cold, the splendour of the hills? But cease to move so near the Heavens, and cease To glide a sunbeam by the blasted Pine, To sit a star upon the sparkling spire; And come, for love is of the valley, come, For love is of the valley, come thou down And find him; by the happy threshold, he, Or hand in hand with Plenty in the maize, Or red with spirted purple of the vats, Or foxlike in the vine; nor cares to walk With Death and Morning on the silver horns, Nor wilt thou snare him in the white ravine, Nor find him dropt upon the firths of ice, That huddling slant in furrow-cloven falls To roll the torrent out of dusky doors: But follow; let the torrent dance thee down To find him in the valley; let the wild Lean-headed Eagles yelp alone, and leave The monstrous ledges there to slope, and spill Their thousand wreaths of dangling water-smoke, That like a broken purpose waste in air: So waste not thou; but come; for all the vales Await thee; azure pillars of the hearth Arise to thee; the children call, and I Thy shepherd pipe, and sweet is every sound, Sweeter thy voice, but every sound is sweet; Myriads of rivulets hurrying through the lawn, The moan of doves in immemorial elms, And murmuring of innumerable bees.'

So she low-toned; while with shut eyes I lay Listening; then looked. Pale was the perfect face; The bosom with long sighs laboured; and meek Seemed the full lips, and mild the luminous eyes, And the voice trembled and the hand. She said Brokenly, that she knew it, she had failed In sweet humility; had failed in all; That all her labour was but as a block Left in the quarry; but she still were loth, She still were loth to yield herself to one That wholly scorned to help their equal rights Against the sons of men, and barbarous laws. She prayed me not to judge their cause from her That wronged it, sought far less for truth than power In knowledge: something wild within her breast, A greater than all knowledge, beat her down. And she had nursed me there from week to week: Much had she learnt in little time. In part It was ill counsel had misled the girl To vex true hearts: yet was she but a girl-- 'Ah fool, and made myself a Queen of farce! When comes another such? never, I think, Till the Sun drop, dead, from the signs.' Her voice choked, and her forehead sank upon her hands, And her great heart through all the faultful Past Went sorrowing in a pause I dared not break; Till notice of a change in the dark world Was lispt about the acacias, and a bird, That early woke to feed her little ones, Sent from a dewy breast a cry for light: She moved, and at her feet the volume fell.

'Blame not thyself too much,' I said, 'nor blame Too much the sons of men and barbarous laws; These were the rough ways of the world till now. Henceforth thou hast a helper, me, that know The woman's cause is man's: they rise or sink Together, dwarfed or godlike, bond or free: For she that out of Lethe scales with man The shining steps of Nature, shares with man His nights, his days, moves with him to one goal, Stays all the fair young planet in her hands-- If she be small, slight-natured, miserable, How shall men grow? but work no more alone! Our place is much: as far as in us lies We two will serve them both in aiding her-- Will clear away the parasitic forms That seem to keep her up but drag her down-- Will leave her space to burgeon out of all Within her--let her make herself her own To give or keep, to live and learn and be All that not harms distinctive womanhood. For woman is not undevelopt man, But diverse: could we make her as the man, Sweet Love were slain: his dearest bond is this, Not like to like, but like in difference. Yet in the long years liker must they grow; The man be more of woman, she of man; He gain in sweetness and in moral height, Nor lose the wrestling thews that throw the world; She mental breadth, nor fail in childward care, Nor lose the childlike in the larger mind; Till at the last she set herself to man, Like perfect music unto noble words; And so these twain, upon the skirts of Time, Sit side by side, full-summed in all their powers, Dispensing harvest, sowing the To-be, Self-reverent each and reverencing each, Distinct in individualities, But like each other even as those who love. Then comes the statelier Eden back to men: Then reign the world's great bridals, chaste and calm: Then springs the crowning race of humankind. May these things be!' Sighing she spoke 'I fear They will not.' 'Dear, but let us type them now In our own lives, and this proud watchword rest Of equal; seeing either sex alone Is half itself, and in true marriage lies Nor equal, nor unequal: each fulfils Defect in each, and always thought in thought, Purpose in purpose, will in will, they grow, The single pure and perfect animal, The two-celled heart beating, with one full stroke, Life.' And again sighing she spoke: 'A dream That once was mind! what woman taught you this?'

'Alone,' I said, 'from earlier than I know, Immersed in rich foreshadowings of the world, I loved the woman: he, that doth not, lives A drowning life, besotted in sweet self, Or pines in sad experience worse than death, Or keeps his winged affections clipt with crime: Yet was there one through whom I loved her, one Not learnèd, save in gracious household ways, Not perfect, nay, but full of tender wants, No Angel, but a dearer being, all dipt In Angel instincts, breathing Paradise, Interpreter between the Gods and men, Who looked all native to her place, and yet On tiptoe seemed to touch upon a sphere Too gross to tread, and all male minds perforce Swayed to her from their orbits as they moved, And girdled her with music. Happy he With such a mother! faith in womankind Beats with his blood, and trust in all things high Comes easy to him, and though he trip and fall He shall not blind his soul with clay.' 'But I,' Said Ida, tremulously, 'so all unlike-- It seems you love to cheat yourself with words: This mother is your model. I have heard of your strange doubts: they well might be: I seem A mockery to my own self. Never, Prince; You cannot love me.' 'Nay but thee' I said 'From yearlong poring on thy pictured eyes, Ere seen I loved, and loved thee seen, and saw Thee woman through the crust of iron moods That masked thee from men's reverence up, and forced Sweet love on pranks of saucy boyhood: now, Given back to life, to life indeed, through thee, Indeed I love: the new day comes, the light Dearer for night, as dearer thou for faults Lived over: lift thine eyes; my doubts are dead, My haunting sense of hollow shows: the change, This truthful change in thee has killed it. Dear, Look up, and let thy nature strike on mine, Like yonder morning on the blind half-world; Approach and fear not; breathe upon my brows; In that fine air I tremble, all the past Melts mist-like into this bright hour, and this Is morn to more, and all the rich to-come Reels, as the golden Autumn woodland reels Athwart the smoke of burning weeds. Forgive me, I waste my heart in signs: let be. My bride, My wife, my life. O we will walk this world, Yoked in all exercise of noble end, And so through those dark gates across the wild That no man knows. Indeed I love thee: come, Yield thyself up: my hopes and thine are one: Accomplish thou my manhood and thyself; Lay thy sweet hands in mine and trust to me.'

Guinevere

Queen Guinevere had fled the court, and sat There in the holy house at Almesbury Weeping, none with her save a little maid, A novice: one low light betwixt them burned Blurred by the creeping mist, for all abroad, Beneath a moon unseen albeit at full, The white mist, like a face-cloth to the face, Clung to the dead earth, and the land was still.

For hither had she fled, her cause of flight Sir Modred; he that like a subtle beast Lay couchant with his eyes upon the throne, Ready to spring, waiting a chance: for this He chilled the popular praises of the King With silent smiles of slow disparagement; And tampered with the Lords of the White Horse, Heathen, the brood by Hengist left; and sought To make disruption in the Table Round Of Arthur, and to splinter it into feuds Serving his traitorous end; and all his aims Were sharpened by strong hate for Lancelot.

For thus it chanced one morn when all the court, Green-suited, but with plumes that mocked the may, Had been, their wont, a-maying and returned, That Modred still in green, all ear and eye, Climbed to the high top of the garden-wall To spy some secret scandal if he might, And saw the Queen who sat betwixt her best Enid, and lissome Vivien, of her court The wiliest and the worst; and more than this He saw not, for Sir Lancelot passing bySpied where he couched, and as the gardener's hand Picks from the colewort a green caterpillar, So from the high wall and the flowering grove Of grasses Lancelot plucked him by the heel, And cast him as a worm upon the way; But when he knew the Prince though marred with dust, He, reverencing king's blood in a bad man, Made such excuses as he might, and these Full knightly without scorn; for in those days No knight of Arthur's noblest dealt in scorn; But, if a man were halt or hunched, in him By those whom God had made full-limbed and tall, Scorn was allowed as part of his defect, And he was answered softly by the King And all his Table. So Sir Lancelot holp To raise the Prince, who rising twice or thrice Full sharply smote his knees, and smiled, and went: But, ever after, the small violence done Rankled in him and ruffled all his heart, As the sharp wind that ruffles all day long A little bitter pool about a stone On the bare coast.

But when Sir Lancelot told This matter to the Queen, at first she laughed Lightly, to think of Modred's dusty fall, Then shuddered, as the village wife who cries `I shudder, some one steps across my grave;' Then laughed again, but faintlier, for indeed She half-foresaw that he, the subtle beast, Would track her guilt until he found, and hers Would be for evermore a name of scorn. Henceforward rarely could she front in hall, Or elsewhere, Modred's narrow foxy face, Heart-hiding smile, and gray persistent eye: Henceforward too, the Powers that tend the soul, To help it from the death that cannot die, And save it even in extremes, began To vex and plague her. Many a time for hours, Beside the placid breathings of the King, In the dead night, grim faces came and went Before her, or a vague spiritual fear-- Like to some doubtful noise of creaking doors, Heard by the watcher in a haunted house, That keeps the rust of murder on the walls-- Held her awake: or if she slept, she dreamed An awful dream; for then she seemed to stand On some vast plain before a setting sun, And from the sun there swiftly made at her A ghastly something, and its shadow flew Before it, till it touched her, and she turned-- When lo! her own, that broadening from her feet, And blackening, swallowed all the land, and in it Far cities burnt, and with a cry she woke. And all this trouble did not pass but grew; Till even the clear face of the guileless King, And trustful courtesies of household life, Became her bane; and at the last she said, `O Lancelot, get thee hence to thine own land, For if thou tarry we shall meet again, And if we meet again, some evil chance Will make the smouldering scandal break and blaze Before the people, and our lord the King.' And Lancelot ever promised, but remained, And still they met and met. Again she said, `O Lancelot, if thou love me get thee hence.' And then they were agreed upon a night (When the good King should not be there) to meet And part for ever. Vivien, lurking, heard. She told Sir Modred. Passion-pale they met And greeted. Hands in hands, and eye to eye, Low on the border of her couch they sat Stammering and staring. It was their last hour, A madness of farewells. And Modred brought His creatures to the basement of the tower For testimony; and crying with full voice `Traitor, come out, ye are trapt at last,' aroused Lancelot, who rushing outward lionlike Leapt on him, and hurled him headlong, and he fell Stunned, and his creatures took and bare him off, And all was still: then she, `The end is come, And I am shamed for ever;' and he said, `Mine be the shame; mine was the sin: but rise, And fly to my strong castle overseas: There will I hide thee, till my life shall end, There hold thee with my life against the world.' She answered, `Lancelot, wilt thou hold me so? Nay, friend, for we have taken our farewells. Would God that thou couldst hide me from myself! Mine is the shame, for I was wife, and thouUnwedded: yet rise now, and let us fly, For I will draw me into sanctuary, And bide my doom.' So Lancelot got her horse, Set her thereon, and mounted on his own, And then they rode to the divided way, There kissed, and parted weeping: for he past, Love-loyal to the least wish of the Queen, Back to his land; but she to Almesbury Fled all night long by glimmering waste and weald, And heard the Spirits of the waste and weald Moan as she fled, or thought she heard them moan: And in herself she moaned `Too late, too late!' Till in the cold wind that foreruns the morn, A blot in heaven, the Raven, flying high, Croaked, and she thought, `He spies a field of death; For now the Heathen of the Northern Sea, Lured by the crimes and frailties of the court, Begin to slay the folk, and spoil the land.'

And when she came to Almesbury she spake There to the nuns, and said, `Mine enemies Pursue me, but, O peaceful Sisterhood, Receive, and yield me sanctuary, nor ask Her name to whom ye yield it, till her time To tell you:' and her beauty, grace and power, Wrought as a charm upon them, and they spared To ask it.

So the stately Queen abode For many a week, unknown, among the nuns; Nor with them mixed, nor told her name, nor sought, Wrapt in her grief, for housel or for shrift, But communed only with the little maid, Who pleased her with a babbling heedlessness Which often lured her from herself; but now, This night, a rumour wildly blown about Came, that Sir Modred had usurped the realm, And leagued him with the heathen, while the King Was waging war on Lancelot: then she thought, `With what a hate the people and the King Must hate me,' and bowed down upon her hands Silent, until the little maid, who brooked No silence, brake it, uttering, `Late! so late! What hour, I wonder, now?' and when she drew No answer, by and by began to hum An air the nuns had taught her; `Late, so late!' Which when she heard, the Queen looked up, and said, `O maiden, if indeed ye list to sing, Sing, and unbind my heart that I may weep.' Whereat full willingly sang the little maid.

`No light had we: for that we do repent; And learning this, the bridegroom will relent. Too late, too late! ye cannot enter now.

`No light: so late! and dark and chill the night! O let us in, that we may find the light! Too late, too late: ye cannot enter now.

`Have we not heard the bridegroom is so sweet? O let us in, though late, to kiss his feet! No, no, too late! ye cannot enter now.'

So sang the novice, while full passionately, Her head upon her hands, remembering Her thought when first she came, wept the sad Queen. Then said the little novice prattling to her, `O pray you, noble lady, weep no more; But let my words, the words of one so small, Who knowing nothing knows but to obey, And if I do not there is penance given-- Comfort your sorrows; for they do not flow From evil done; right sure am I of that, Who see your tender grace and stateliness. But weigh your sorrows with our lord the King's, And weighing find them less; for gone is he To wage grim war against Sir Lancelot there, Round that strong castle where he holds the Queen; And Modred whom he left in charge of all, The traitor--Ah sweet lady, the King's grief For his own self, and his own Queen, and realm, Must needs be thrice as great as any of ours. For me, I thank the saints, I am not great. For if there ever come a grief to me I cry my cry in silence, and have done. None knows it, and my tears have brought me good: But even were the griefs of little ones As great as those of great ones, yet this grief Is added to the griefs the great must bear, That howsoever much they may desire Silence, they cannot weep behind a cloud: As even here they talk at Almesbury About the good King and his wicked Queen, And were I such a King with such a Queen, Well might I wish to veil her wickedness, But were I such a King, it could not be.'

Then to her own sad heart muttered the Queen, `Will the child kill me with her innocent talk?' But openly she answered, `Must not I, If this false traitor have displaced his lord, Grieve with the common grief of all the realm?'

`Yea,' said the maid, `this is all woman's grief, That SHE is woman, whose disloyal life Hath wrought confusion in the Table Round Which good King Arthur founded, years ago, With signs and miracles and wonders, there At Camelot, ere the coming of the Queen.'

Then thought the Queen within herself again, `Will the child kill me with her foolish prate?' But openly she spake and said to her, `O little maid, shut in by nunnery walls, What canst thou know of Kings and Tables Round, Or what of signs and wonders, but the signs And simple miracles of thy nunnery?'

To whom the little novice garrulously, `Yea, but I know: the land was full of signs And wonders ere the coming of the Queen. So said my father, and himself was knight Of the great Table--at the founding of it; And rode thereto from Lyonnesse, and he said That as he rode, an hour or maybe twain After the sunset, down the coast, he heard Strange music, and he paused, and turning--there, All down the lonely coast of Lyonnesse, Each with a beacon-star upon his head, And with a wild sea-light about his feet, He saw them--headland after headland flame Far on into the rich heart of the west: And in the light the white mermaiden swam, And strong man-breasted things stood from the sea, And sent a deep sea-voice through all the land, To which the little elves of chasm and cleft Made answer, sounding like a distant horn. So said my father--yea, and furthermore, Next morning, while he past the dim-lit woods, Himself beheld three spirits mad with joy Come dashing down on a tall wayside flower, That shook beneath them, as the thistle shakes When three gray linnets wrangle for the seed: And still at evenings on before his horse The flickering fairy-circle wheeled and broke Flying, and linked again, and wheeled and broke Flying, for all the land was full of life. And when at last he came to Camelot, A wreath of airy dancers hand-in-hand Swung round the lighted lantern of the hall; And in the hall itself was such a feast As never man had dreamed; for every knight Had whatsoever meat he longed for served By hands unseen; and even as he said Down in the cellars merry bloated things Shouldered the spigot, straddling on the butts While the wine ran: so glad were spirits and menBefore the coming of the sinful Queen.'

Then spake the Queen and somewhat bitterly, `Were they so glad? ill prophets were they all, Spirits and men: could none of them foresee, Not even thy wise father with his signs And wonders, what has fallen upon the realm?'

To whom the novice garrulously again, `Yea, one, a bard; of whom my father said, Full many a noble war-song had he sung, Even in the presence of an enemy's fleet, Between the steep cliff and the coming wave; And many a mystic lay of life and death Had chanted on the smoky mountain-tops, When round him bent the spirits of the hills With all their dewy hair blown back like flame: So said my father--and that night the bard Sang Arthur's glorious wars, and sang the King As wellnigh more than man, and railed at those Who called him the false son of Gorlos: For there was no man knew from whence he came; But after tempest, when the long wave broke All down the thundering shores of Bude and Bos, There came a day as still as heaven, and then They found a naked child upon the sands Of dark Tintagil by the Cornish sea; And that was Arthur; and they fostered him Till he by miracle was approven King: And that his grave should be a mystery From all men, like his birth; and could he find A woman in her womanhood as greatAs he was in his manhood, then, he sang, The twain together well might change the world. But even in the middle of his song He faltered, and his hand fell from the harp, And pale he turned, and reeled, and would have fallen, But that they stayed him up; nor would he tell His vision; but what doubt that he foresaw This evil work of Lancelot and the Queen?'

Then thought the Queen, `Lo! they have set her on, Our simple-seeming Abbess and her nuns, To play upon me,' and bowed her head nor spake. Whereat the novice crying, with clasped hands, Shame on her own garrulity garrulously, Said the good nuns would check her gadding tongue Full often, `and, sweet lady, if I seem To vex an ear too sad to listen to me, Unmannerly, with prattling and the tales Which my good father told me, check me too Nor let me shame my father's memory, one Of noblest manners, though himself would say Sir Lancelot had the noblest; and he died, Killed in a tilt, come next, five summers back, And left me; but of others who remain, And of the two first-famed for courtesy-- And pray you check me if I ask amiss- But pray you, which had noblest, while you moved Among them, Lancelot or our lord the King?'

Then the pale Queen looked up and answered her, `Sir Lancelot, as became a noble knight, Was gracious to all ladies, and the same In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and the King In open battle or the tilting-field Forbore his own advantage, and these two Were the most nobly-mannered men of all; For manners are not idle, but the fruit Of loyal nature, and of noble mind.'

`Yea,' said the maid, `be manners such fair fruit?' Then Lancelot's needs must be a thousand-fold Less noble, being, as all rumour runs, The most disloyal friend in all the world.'

To which a mournful answer made the Queen: `O closed about by narrowing nunnery-walls, What knowest thou of the world, and all its lights And shadows, all the wealth and all the woe? If ever Lancelot, that most noble knight, Were for one hour less noble than himself, Pray for him that he scape the doom of fire, And weep for her that drew him to his doom.'

`Yea,' said the little novice, `I pray for both; But I should all as soon believe that his, Sir Lancelot's, were as noble as the King's, As I could think, sweet lady, yours would be Such as they are, were you the sinful Queen.'

So she, like many another babbler, hurt Whom she would soothe, and harmed where she would heal; For here a sudden flush of wrathful heat Fired all the pale face of the Queen, who cried, `Such as thou art be never maiden more For ever! thou their tool, set on to plague And play upon, and harry me, petty spy And traitress.' When that storm of anger brake From Guinevere, aghast the maiden rose, White as her veil, and stood before the Queen As tremulously as foam upon the beach Stands in a wind, ready to break and fly, And when the Queen had added `Get thee hence,' Fled frighted. Then that other left alone Sighed, and began to gather heart again, Saying in herself, `The simple, fearful child Meant nothing, but my own too-fearful guilt, Simpler than any child, betrays itself. But help me, heaven, for surely I repent. For what is true repentance but in thought-- Not even in inmost thought to think again The sins that made the past so pleasant to us: And I have sworn never to see him more, To see him more.'

And even in saying this, Her memory from old habit of the mind Went slipping back upon the golden days In which she saw him first, when Lancelot came, Reputed the best knight and goodliest man, Ambassador, to lead her to his lord Arthur, and led her forth, and far ahead Of his and her retinue moving, they, Rapt in sweet talk or lively, all on love And sport and tilts and pleasure, (for the time Was maytime, and as yet no sin was dreamed,) Rode under groves that looked a paradise Of blossom, over sheets of hyacinth That seemed the heavens upbreaking through the earth, And on from hill to hill, and every day Beheld at noon in some delicious dale The silk pavilions of King Arthur raised For brief repast or afternoon repose By couriers gone before; and on again, Till yet once more ere set of sun they saw The Dragon of the great Pendragonship, That crowned the state pavilion of the King, Blaze by the rushing brook or silent well.

But when the Queen immersed in such a trance, And moving through the past unconsciously, Came to that point where first she saw the King Ride toward her from the city, sighed to find Her journey done, glanced at him, thought him cold, High, self-contained, and passionless, not like him, `Not like my Lancelot'--while she brooded thus And grew half-guilty in her thoughts again, There rode an armd warrior to the doors. A murmuring whisper through the nunnery ran, Then on a sudden a cry, `The King.' She sat Stiff-stricken, listening; but when armd feet Through the long gallery from the outer doors Rang coming, prone from off her seat she fell, And grovelled with her face against the floor: There with her milkwhite arms and shadowy hair She made her face a darkness from the King: And in the darkness heard his armd feet Pause by her; then came silence, then a voice, Monotonous and hollow like a Ghost's Denouncing judgment, but though changed, the King's:

`Liest thou here so low, the child of one I honoured, happy, dead before thy shame? Well is it that no child is born of thee. The children born of thee are sword and fire, Red ruin, and the breaking up of laws, The craft of kindred and the Godless hosts Of heathen swarming o'er the Northern Sea; Whom I, while yet Sir Lancelot, my right arm, The mightiest of my knights, abode with me, Have everywhere about this land of Christ In twelve great battles ruining overthrown. And knowest thou now from whence I come--from him From waging bitter war with him: and he, That did not shun to smite me in worse way, Had yet that grace of courtesy in him left, He spared to lift his hand against the King Who made him knight: but many a knight was slain; And many more, and all his kith and kin Clave to him, and abode in his own land. And many more when Modred raised revolt, Forgetful of their troth and fealty, clave To Modred, and a remnant stays with me. And of this remnant will I leave a part, True men who love me still, for whom I live, To guard thee in the wild hour coming on, Lest but a hair of this low head be harmed. Fear not: thou shalt be guarded till my death. Howbeit I know, if ancient prophecies Have erred not, that I march to meet my doom. Thou hast not made my life so sweet to me, That I the King should greatly care to live; For thou hast spoilt the purpose of my life. Bear with me for the last time while I show, Even for thy sake, the sin which thou hast sinned. For when the Roman left us, and their law Relaxed its hold upon us, and the ways Were filled with rapine, here and there a deed Of prowess done redressed a random wrong. But I was first of all the kings who drew The knighthood-errant of this realm and all The realms together under me, their Head, In that fair Order of my Table Round, A glorious company, the flower of men, To serve as model for the mighty world, And be the fair beginning of a time. I made them lay their hands in mine and swear To reverence the King, as if he were Their conscience, and their conscience as their King, To break the heathen and uphold the Christ, To ride abroad redressing human wrongs, To speak no slander, no, nor listen to it, To honour his own word as if his God's, To lead sweet lives in purest chastity, To love one maiden only, cleave to her, And worship her by years of noble deeds, Until they won her; for indeed I knew Of no more subtle master under heaven Than is the maiden passion for a maid, Not only to keep down the base in man, But teach high thought, and amiable words And courtliness, and the desire of fame, And love of truth, and all that makes a man. And all this throve before I wedded thee, Believing, "lo mine helpmate, one to feel My purpose and rejoicing in my joy." Then came thy shameful sin with Lancelot; Then came the sin of Tristram and Isolt; Then others, following these my mightiest knights, And drawing foul ensample from fair names, Sinned also, till the loathsome opposite Of all my heart had destined did obtain, And all through thee! so that this life of mine I guard as God's high gift from scathe and wrong, Not greatly care to lose; but rather think How sad it were for Arthur, should he live, To sit once more within his lonely hall, And miss the wonted number of my knights, And miss to hear high talk of noble deeds As in the golden days before thy sin. For which of us, who might be left, could speak Of the pure heart, nor seem to glance at thee? And in thy bowers of Camelot or of Usk Thy shadow still would glide from room to room, And I should evermore be vext with thee In hanging robe or vacant ornament, Or ghostly footfall echoing on the stair. For think not, though thou wouldst not love thy lord, Thy lord hast wholly lost his love for thee. I am not made of so slight elements. Yet must I leave thee, woman, to thy shame. I hold that man the worst of public foes Who either for his own or children's sake, To save his blood from scandal, lets the wife Whom he knows false, abide and rule the house: For being through his cowardice allowed Her station, taken everywhere for pure, She like a new disease, unknown to men, Creeps, no precaution used, among the crowd, Makes wicked lightnings of her eyes, and saps The fealty of our friends, and stirs the pulse With devil's leaps, and poisons half the young. Worst of the worst were that man he that reigns! Better the King's waste hearth and aching heart Than thou reseated in thy place of light, The mockery of my people, and their bane.'

He paused, and in the pause she crept an inch Nearer, and laid her hands about his feet. Far off a solitary trumpet blew. Then waiting by the doors the warhorse neighed At a friend's voice, and he spake again:

`Yet think not that I come to urge thy crimes, I did not come to curse thee, Guinevere, I, whose vast pity almost makes me die To see thee, laying there thy golden head, My pride in happier summers, at my feet. The wrath which forced my thoughts on that fierce law, The doom of treason and the flaming death, (When first I learnt thee hidden here) is past. The pang--which while I weighed thy heart with one Too wholly true to dream untruth in thee, Made my tears burn--is also past--in part. And all is past, the sin is sinned, and I, Lo! I forgive thee, as Eternal God Forgives: do thou for thine own soul the rest. But how to take last leave of all I loved? O golden hair, with which I used to play Not knowing! O imperial-moulded form, And beauty such as never woman wore, Until it became a kingdom's curse with thee-- I cannot touch thy lips, they are not mine, But Lancelot's: nay, they never were the King's. I cannot take thy hand: that too is flesh, And in the flesh thou hast sinned; and mine own flesh, Here looking down on thine polluted, cries "I loathe thee:" yet not less, O Guinevere, For I was ever virgin save for thee, My love through flesh hath wrought into my life So far, that my doom is, I love thee still. Let no man dream but that I love thee still. Perchance, and so thou purify thy soul, And so thou lean on our fair father Christ, Hereafter in that world where all are pure We two may meet before high God, and thouWilt spring to me, and claim me thine, and know I am thine husband--not a smaller soul, Nor Lancelot, nor another. Leave me that, I charge thee, my last hope. Now must I hence. Through the thick night I hear the trumpet blow: They summon me their King to lead mine hosts Far down to that great battle in the west, Where I must strike against the man they call My sister's son--no kin of mine, who leagues With Lords of the White Horse, heathen, and knights, Traitors--and strike him dead, and meet myself Death, or I know not what mysterious doom. And thou remaining here wilt learn the event; But hither shall I never come again, Never lie by thy side; see thee no more-- Farewell!'

And while she grovelled at his feet, She felt the King's breath wander o'er her neck, And in the darkness o'er her fallen head, Perceived the waving of his hands that blest.

Then, listening till those armd steps were gone, Rose the pale Queen, and in her anguish found The casement: `peradventure,' so she thought, `If I might see his face, and not be seen.' And lo, he sat on horseback at the door! And near him the sad nuns with each a light Stood, and he gave them charge about the Queen, To guard and foster her for evermore. And while he spake to these his helm was lowered, To which for crest the golden dragon clung Of Britain; so she did not see the face, Which then was as an angel's, but she saw, Wet with the mists and smitten by the lights, The Dragon of the great Pendragonship Blaze, making all the night a steam of fire. And even then he turned; and more and more The moony vapour rolling round the King, Who seemed the phantom of a Giant in it, Enwound him fold by fold, and made him gray And grayer, till himself became as mist Before her, moving ghostlike to his doom.

Then she stretched out her arms and cried aloud `Oh Arthur!' there her voice brake suddenly, Then--as a stream that spouting from a cliff Fails in mid air, but gathering at the base Re-makes itself, and flashes down the vale-- Went on in passionate utterance:

`Gone--my lord! Gone through my sin to slay and to be slain! And he forgave me, and I could not speak. Farewell? I should have answered his farewell. His mercy choked me. Gone, my lord the King, My own true lord! how dare I call him mine? The shadow of another cleaves to me, And makes me one pollution: he, the King, Called me polluted: shall I kill myself? What help in that? I cannot kill my sin, If soul be soul; nor can I kill my shame; No, nor by living can I live it down. The days will grow to weeks, the weeks to months The months will add themselves and make the years, The years will roll into the centuries, And mine will ever be a name of scorn. I must not dwell on that defeat of fame. Let the world be; that is but of the world. What else? what hope? I think there was a hope, Except he mocked me when he spake of hope; His hope he called it; but he never mocks, For mockery is the fume of little hearts. And blessd be the King, who hath forgiven My wickedness to him, and left me hope That in mine own heart I can live down sin And be his mate hereafter in the heavens Before high God. Ah great and gentle lord, Who wast, as is the conscience of a saint Among his warring senses, to thy knights-- To whom my false voluptuous pride, that took Full easily all impressions from below, Would not look up, or half-despised the height To which I would not or I could not climb-- I thought I could not breathe in that fine air That pure severity of perfect light-- I yearned for warmth and colour which I found In Lancelot--now I see thee what thou art, Thou art the highest and most human too, Not Lancelot, nor another. Is there none Will tell the King I love him though so late? Now--ere he goes to the great Battle? none: Myself must tell him in that purer life, But now it were too daring. Ah my God, What might I not have made of thy fair world, Had I but loved thy highest creature here? It was my duty to have loved the highest: It surely was my profit had I known: It would have been my pleasure had I seen. We needs must love the highest when we see it, Not Lancelot, nor another.'

Here her hand Grasped, made her vail her eyes: she looked and saw The novice, weeping, suppliant, and said to her, `Yea, little maid, for am I not forgiven?' Then glancing up beheld the holy nuns All round her, weeping; and her heart was loosed Within her, and she wept with these and said,

`Ye know me then, that wicked one, who broke The vast design and purpose of the King. O shut me round with narrowing nunnery-walls, Meek maidens, from the voices crying "shame." I must not scorn myself: he loves me still. Let no one dream but that he loves me still. So let me, if you do not shudder at me, Nor shun to call me sister, dwell with you; Wear black and white, and be a nun like you, Fast with your fasts, not feasting with your feasts; Grieve with your griefs, not grieving at your joys, But not rejoicing; mingle with your rites; Pray and be prayed for; lie before your shrines; Do each low office of your holy house; Walk your dim cloister, and distribute dole To poor sick people, richer in His eyes Who ransomed us, and haler too than I; And treat their loathsome hurts and heal mine own; And so wear out in almsdeed and in prayer The sombre close of that voluptuous day, Which wrought the ruin of my lord the King.'

She said: they took her to themselves; and she Still hoping, fearing `is it yet too late?' Dwelt with them, till in time their Abbess died. Then she, for her good deeds and her pure life, And for the power of ministration in her, And likewise for the high rank she had borne, Was chosen Abbess, there, an Abbess, lived For three brief years, and there, an Abbess, past To where beyond these voices there is peace.

The Growth of Love

1They that in play can do the thing they would,Having an instinct throned in reason's place,--And every perfect action hath the graceOf indolence or thoughtless hardihood--These are the best: yet be there workmen goodWho lose in earnestness control of face,Or reckon means, and rapt in effort baseReach to their end by steps well understood. Me whom thou sawest of late strive with the painsOf one who spends his strength to rule his nerve,--Even as a painter breathlessly who stainsHis scarcely moving hand lest it should swerve--Behold me, now that I have cast my chains,Master of the art which for thy sake I serve.

2For thou art mine: and now I am ashamedTo have uséd means to win so pure acquist,And of my trembling fear that might have misstThro' very care the gold at which I aim'd;And am as happy but to hear thee named,As are those gentle souls by angels kisstIn pictures seen leaving their marble cistTo go before the throne of grace unblamed. Nor surer am I water hath the skillTo quench my thirst, or that my strength is freedIn delicate ordination as I will,Than that to be myself is all I needFor thee to be most mine: so I stand still,And save to taste my joy no more take heed.

3The whole world now is but the ministerOf thee to me: I see no other schemeBut universal love, from timeless dreamWaking to thee his joy's interpreter.I walk around and in the fields conferOf love at large with tree and flower and stream,And list the lark descant upon my theme,Heaven's musical accepted worshipper. Thy smile outfaceth ill: and that old feud'Twixt things and me is quash'd in our new truce;And nature now dearly with thee enduedNo more in shame ponders her old excuse,But quite forgets her frowns and antics rude,So kindly hath she grown to her new use.

4The very names of things belov'd are dear,And sounds will gather beauty from their sense,As many a face thro' love's long residenceGroweth to fair instead of plain and sere:But when I say thy name it hath no peer,And I suppose fortune determined thenceHer dower, that such beauty's excellenceShould have a perfect title for the ear. Thus may I think the adopting Muses choseTheir sons by name, knowing none would be heardOr writ so oft in all the world as those,--Dan Chaucer, mighty Shakespeare, then for thirdThe classic Milton, and to us aroseShelley with liquid music in the world.

5The poets were good teachers, for they taughtEarth had this joy; but that 'twould ever beThat fortune should be perfected in me,My heart of hope dared not engage the thought.So I stood low, and now but to be caughtBy any self-styled lords of the age with theeVexes my modesty, lest they should seeI hold them owls and peacocks, things of nought. And when we sit alone, and as I pleaseI taste thy love's full smile, and can enstateThe pleasure of my kingly heart at ease,My thought swims like a ship, that with the weightOf her rich burden sleeps on the infinite seasBecalm'd, and cannot stir her golden freight.

6While yet we wait for spring, and from the dryAnd blackening east that so embitters March,Well-housed must watch grey fields and meadows parch,And driven dust and withering snowflake fly;Already in glimpses of the tarnish'd skyThe sun is warm and beckons to the larch,And where the covert hazels interarchTheir tassell'd twigs, fair beds of primrose lie. Beneath the crisp and wintry carpet hidA million buds but stay their blossoming;And trustful birds have built their nests amidThe shuddering boughs, and only wait to singTill one soft shower from the south shall bid,And hither tempt the pilgrim steps of spring.

7In thee my spring of life hath bid the whileA rose unfold beyond the summer's best,The mystery of joy made manifestIn love's self-answering and awakening smile;Whereby the lips in wonder reconcilePassion with peace, and show desire at rest,--A grace of silence by the Greek unguesst,That bloom'd to immortalize the Tuscan style When first the angel-song that faith hath ken'dFancy pourtray'd, above recorded oathOf Israel's God, or light of poem pen'd;The very countenance of plighted troth'Twixt heaven and earth, where in one moment blendThe hope of one and happiness of both.

8For beauty being the best of all we knowSums up the unsearchable and secret aimsOf nature, and on joys whose earthly namesWere never told can form and sense bestow;And man hath sped his instinct to outgoThe step of science; and against her shamesImagination stakes out heavenly claims,Building a tower above the head of woe. Nor is there fairer work for beauty foundThan that she win in nature her releaseFrom all the woes that in the world abound:Nay with his sorrow may his love increase,If from man's greater need beauty redound,And claim his tears for homage of his peace.

9Thus to thy beauty doth my fond heart look,That late dismay'd her faithless faith forbore;And wins again her love lost in the loreOf schools and script of many a learned book:For thou what ruthless death untimely tookShalt now in better brotherhood restore,And save my batter'd ship that far from shoreHigh on the dismal deep in tempest shook.

So in despite of sorrow lately learn'dI still hold true to truth since thou art true,Nor wail the woe which thou to joy hast turn'dNor come the heavenly sun and bathing blueTo my life's need more splendid and unearn'dThan hath thy gift outmatch'd desire and due.

10Winter was not unkind because uncouth;His prison'd time made me a closer guest,And gave thy graciousness a warmer zest,Biting all else with keen and angry toothAnd bravelier the triumphant blood of youthMantling thy cheek its happy home possest,And sterner sport by day put strength to test,And custom's feast at night gave tongue to truth Or say hath flaunting summer a deviceTo match our midnight revelry, that rangWith steel and flame along the snow-girt ice?Or when we hark't to nightingales that sangOn dewy eves in spring, did they enticeTo gentler love than winter's icy fang?

11There's many a would-be poet at this hour,Rhymes of a love that he hath never woo'd,And o'er his lamplit desk in solitudeDeems that he sitteth in the Muses' bower:And some the flames of earthly love devour,Who have taken no kiss of Nature, nor renew'dIn the world's wilderness with heavenly foodThe sickly body of their perishing power.

So none of all our company, I boast,But now would mock my penning, could they seeHow down the right it maps a jagged coast;Seeing they hold the manlier praise to beStrong hand and will, and the heart best when most'Tis sober, simple, true, and fancy-free.

12How could I quarrel or blame you, most dear,Who all thy virtues gavest and kept back none;Kindness and gentleness, truth without peer,And beauty that my fancy fed upon?Now not my life's contrition for my faultCan blot that day, nor work me recompence,Tho' I might worthily thy worth exalt,Making thee long amends for short offence. For surely nowhere, love, if not in theeAre grace and truth and beauty to be found;And all my praise of these can only beA praise of thee, howe'er by thee disown'd:While still thou must be mine tho' far removed,And I for one offence no more beloved.

13Now since to me altho' by thee refusedThe world is left, I shall find pleasure still;The art that most I have loved but little usedWill yield a world of fancies at my will:And tho' where'er thou goest it is from me,I where I go thee in my heart must bear;And what thou wert that wilt thou ever be,My choice, my best, my loved, and only fair. Farewell, yet think not such farewell a changeFrom tenderness, tho' once to meet or partBut on short absence so could sense derangeThat tears have graced the greeting of my heart;They were proud drops and had my leave to fall,Not on thy pity for my pain to call.

14When sometimes in an ancient house where stateFrom noble ancestry is handed on,We see but desolation thro' the gate,And richest heirlooms all to ruin gone;Because maybe some fancied shame or fear,Bred of disease or melancholy fate,Hath driven the owner from his rightful sphereTo wander nameless save to pity or hate: What is the wreck of all he hath in fiefWhen he that hath is wrecking? nought is fineUnto the sick, nor doth it burden griefThat the house perish when the soul doth pine.Thus I my state despise, slain by a stingSo slight 'twould not have hurt a meaner thing.

15Who builds a ship must first lay down the keelOf health, whereto the ribs of mirth are wed:And knit, with beams and knees of strength, a bedFor decks of purity, her floor and ceil.Upon her masts, Adventure, Pride, and Zeal,To fortune's wind the sails of purpose spread:And at the prow make figured maidenheadO'erride the seas and answer to the wheel. And let him deep in memory's hold have stor'dWater of Helicon: and let him fitThe needle that doth true with heaven accord:Then bid her crew, love, diligence and witWith justice, courage, temperance come aboard,And at her helm the master reason sit.

16This world is unto God a work of art,Of which the unaccomplish'd heavenly planIs hid in life within the creature's heart,And for perfection looketh unto man.Ah me! those thousand ages: with what slowPains and persistence were his idols made,Destroy'd and made, ere ever he could knowThe mighty mother must be so obey'd. For lack of knowledge and thro' little skillHis childish mimicry outwent his aim;His effort shaped the genius of his will;Till thro' distinction and revolt he came,True to his simple terms of good and ill,Seeking the face of Beauty without blame.

17Say who be these light-bearded, sunburnt facesIn negligent and travel-stain'd array,That in the city of Dante come to-day,Haughtily visiting her holy places?O these be noble men that hide their graces,True England's blood, her ancient glory's stay,By tales of fame diverted on their wayHome from the rule of oriental races. Life-trifling lions these, of gentle eyesAnd motion delicate, but swift to fireFor honour, passionate where duty lies,Most loved and loving: and they quickly tireOf Florence, that she one day more deniesThe embrace of wife and son, of sister or sire.

18Where San Miniato's convent from the sunAt forenoon overlooks the city of flowersI sat, and gazing on her domes and towersCall'd up her famous children one by one:And three who all the rest had far outdone,Mild Giotto first, who stole the morning hours,I saw, and god-like Buonarroti's powers,And Dante, gravest poet, her much-wrong'd son.

Is all this glory, I said, another's praise?Are these heroic triumphs things of old,And do I dead upon the living gaze?Or rather doth the mind, that can beholdThe wondrous beauty of the works and days,Create the image that her thoughts enfold?

19Rejoice, ye dead, where'er your spirits dwell,Rejoice that yet on earth your fame is bright;And that your names, remember'd day and night,Live on the lips of those that love you well.'Tis ye that conquer'd have the powers of hell,Each with the special grace of your delight:Ye are the world's creators, and thro' mightOf everlasting love ye did excel. Now ye are starry names, above the stormAnd war of Time and nature's endless wrongYe flit, in pictured truth and peaceful form,Wing'd with bright music and melodious song,--The flaming flowers of heaven, making May-danceIn dear Imagination's rich pleasance.

20The world still goeth about to shew and hide,Befool'd of all opinion, fond of fame:But he that can do well taketh no pride,And see'th his error, undisturb'd by shame:So poor's the best that longest life can do,The most so little, diligently done;So mighty is the beauty that doth woo,So vast the joy that love from love hath won. God's love to win is easy, for He lovethDesire's fair attitude, nor strictly weighsThe broken thing, but all alike approvethWhich love hath aim'd at Him: that is heaven's praise:And if we look for any praise on earth,'Tis in man's love: all else is nothing worth.

21O flesh and blood, comrade to tragic painAnd clownish merriment whose sense could wakeSermons in stones, and count death but an ache,All things as vanity, yet nothing vain:The world, set in thy heart, thy passionate strainReveal'd anew; but thou for man didst makeNature twice natural, only to shakeHer kingdom with the creatures of thy brain. Lo, Shakespeare, since thy time nature is lothTo yield to art her fair supremacy;In conquering one thou hast so enrichèd both.What shall I say? for God--whose wise decreeConfirmeth all He did by all He doth--Doubled His whole creation making thee.

22I would be a bird, and straight on wings I arise,And carry purpose up to the ends of the airIn calm and storm my sails I feather, and whereBy freezing cliffs the unransom'd wreckage lies:Or, strutting on hot meridian banks, surpriseThe silence: over plains in the moonlight bareI chase my shadow, and perch where no bird dareIn treetops torn by fiercest winds of the skies. Poor simple birds, foolish birds! then I cry,Ye pretty pictures of delight, unstir'dBy the only joy of knowing that ye fly;Ye are not what ye are, but rather, sum'd in a word,The alphabet of a god's idea, and IWho master it, I am the only bird.

23O weary pilgrims, chanting of your woe,That turn your eyes to all the peaks that shine,Hailing in each the citadel divineThe which ye thought to have enter'd long ago;Until at length your feeble steps and slowFalter upon the threshold of the shrine,And your hearts overhurden'd doubt in fineWhether it be Jerusalem or no: Dishearten'd pilgrims, I am one of you;For, having worshipp'd many a barren face,I scarce now greet the goal I journey'd to:I stand a pagan in the holy place;Beneath the lamp of truth I am found untrue,And question with the God that I embrace.

24Spring hath her own bright days of calm and peace;Her melting air, at every breath we draw,Floods heart with love to praise God's gracious law:But suddenly--so short is pleasure's lease--The cold returns, the buds from growing cease,And nature's conquer'd face is full of awe;As now the trait'rous north with icy flawFreezes the dew upon the sick lamb's fleece, And 'neath the mock sun searching everywhereRattles the crispèd leaves with shivering din:So that the birds are silent with despairWithin the thickets; nor their armour thinWill gaudy flies adventure in the air,Nor any lizard sun his spotted skin.

25Nothing is joy without thee: I can findNo rapture in the first relays of spring,In songs of birds, in young buds opening,Nothing inspiriting and nothing kind;For lack of thee, who once wert throned behindAll beauty, like a strength where graces cling,--The jewel and heart of light, which everythingWrestled in rivalry to hold enshrined. Ah! since thou'rt fled, and I in each fair sightThe sweet occasion of my joy deplore,Where shall I seek thee best, or whom inviteWithin thy sacred temples and adore?Who shall fill thought and truth with old delight,And lead my soul in life as heretofore?

26The work is done, and from the fingers fallThe bloodwarm tools that brought the labour thro':The tasking eye that overrunneth allRests, and affirms there is no more to do.Now the third joy of making, the sweet flowerOf blessed work, bloometh in godlike spirit;Which whoso plucketh holdeth for an hourThe shrivelling vanity of mortal merit. And thou, my perfect work, thou'rt of to-day;To-morrow a poor and alien thing wilt be,True only should the swift life stand at stay:Therefore farewell, nor look to bide with me.Go find thy friends, if there be one to love thee:Casting thee forth, my child, I rise above thee.

27The fabled sea-snake, old Leviathan,Or else what grisly beast of scaly chineThat champ'd the ocean-wrack and swash'd the brine,Before the new and milder days of man,Had never rib nor bray nor swindging fanLike his iron swimmer of the Clyde or Tyne,Late-born of golden seed to breed a lineOf offspring swifter and more huge of plan. Straight is her going, for upon the sunWhen once she hath look'd, her path and place are plain;With tireless speed she smiteth one by oneThe shuddering seas and foams along the main;And her eased breath, when her wild race is run,Roars thro' her nostrils like a hurricane.

28A thousand times hath in my heart's behoofMy tongue been set his passion to impart;A thousand times hath my too coward heartMy mouth reclosed and fix'd it to the roof;Then with such cunning hath it held aloof,A thousand times kept silence with such artThat words could do no more: yet on thy partHath silence given a thousand times reproof. I should be bolder, seeing I commendLove, that my dilatory purpose primes,But fear lest with my fears my hope should end:Nay, I would truth deny and burn my rhymes,Renew my sorrows rather than offend,A thousand times, and yet a thousand times.

29I travel to thee with the sun's first rays,That lift the dark west and unwrap the night;I dwell beside thee when he walks the height,And fondly toward thee at his setting gaze.I wait upon thy coming, but always--Dancing to meet my thoughts if they invite--Thou hast outrun their longing with delight,And in my solitude dost mock my praise. Now doth my drop of time transcend the whole:I see no fame in Khufu's pyramid,No history where loveless Nile doth roll.--This is eternal life, which doth forbidMortal detraction to the exalted soul,And from her inward eye all fate hath hid.

30My lady pleases me and I please her;This know we both, and I besides know wellWherefore I love her, and I love to tellMy love, as all my loving songs aver.But what on her part could the passion stir,Tho' 'tis more difficult for love to spell,Yet can I dare divine how this befel,Nor will her lips deny it if I err. She loves me first because I love her, thenLoves me for knowing why she should be loved,And that I love to praise her, loves again.So from her beauty both our loves are moved,And by her beauty are sustain'd; nor whenThe earth falls from the sun is this disproved.

31In all things beautiful, I cannot seeHer sit or stand, but love is stir'd anew:'Tis joy to watch the folds fall as they do,And all that comes is past expectancy.If she be silent, silence let it be;He who would bid her speak might sit and sueThe deep-brow'd Phidian Jove to be untrueTo his two thousand years' solemnity. Ah, but her launchèd passion, when she sings,Wins on the hearing like a shapen prowBorne by the mastery of its urgent wings:Or if she deign her wisdom, she doth showShe hath the intelligence of heavenly things,Unsullied by man's mortal overthrow.

32Thus to be humbled: 'tis that ranging prideNo refuge hath; that in his castle strongBrave reason sits beleaguer'd, who so longKept field, but now must starve where he doth hide;That industry, who once the foe defied,Lies slaughter'd in the trenches; that the throngOf idle fancies pipe their foolish song,Where late the puissant captains fought and died. Thus to be humbled: 'tis to be undone;A forest fell'd; a city razed to ground;A cloak unsewn, unwoven and unspunTill not a thread remains that can be wound.And yet, O lover, thee, the ruin'd one,Love who hath humbled thus hath also crown'd.

33I care not if I live, tho' life and breathHave never been to me so dear and sweet.I care not if I die, for I could meet--Being so happy--happily my death.I care not if I love; to-day she saithShe loveth, and love's history is complete.Nor care I if she love me; at her feetMy spirit bows entranced and worshippeth. I have no care for what was most my care,But all around me see fresh beauty born,And common sights grown lovelier than they were:I dream of love, and in the light of mornTremble, beholding all things very fairAnd strong with strength that puts my strength to scorn.

34O my goddess divine sometimes I sayNow let this word for ever and all suffice;Thou art insatiable, and yet not twiceCan even thy lover give his soul away:And for my acts, that at thy feet I lay;For never any other, by deviceOf wisdom, love or beauty, could enticeMy homage to the measure of this day. I have no more to give thee: lo, I have soldMy life, have emptied out my heart, and spentWhate'er I had; till like a beggar, boldWith nought to lose, I laugh and am content.A beggar kisses thee; nay, love, behold,I fear not: thou too art in beggarment.

35All earthly beauty hath one cause and proof,To lead the pilgrim soul to beauty above:Yet lieth the greater bliss so far aloof,That few there be are wean'd from earthly love.Joy's ladder it is, reaching from home to home,The best of all the work that all was good;Whereof 'twas writ the angels aye upclomb,Down sped, and at the top the Lord God stood. But I my time abuse, my eyes by dayCenter'd on thee, by night my heart on fire--Letting my number'd moments run away--Nor e'en 'twixt night and day to heaven aspire:So true it is that what the eye seeth notBut slow is loved, and loved is soon forgot.

36O my life's mischief, once my love's delight,That drew'st a mortgage on my heart's estate,Whose baneful clause is never out of date,Nor can avenging time restore my right:Whom first to lose sounded that note of spite,Whereto my doleful days were tuned by fate:That art the well-loved cause of all my hate,The sun whose wandering makes my hopeless night: Thou being in all my lacking all I lack,It is thy goodness turns my grace to crime,Thy fleetness from my goal which holds me back;Wherefore my feet go out of step with time,My very grasp of life is old and slack,And even my passion falters in my rhyme.

37At times with hurried hoofs and scattering dustI race by field or highway, and my horseSpare not, but urge direct in headlong courseUnto some fair far hill that gain I must:But near arrived the vision soon mistrust,Rein in, and stand as one who sees the sourceOf strong illusion, shaming thought to forceFrom off his mind the soil of passion's gust.

My brow I bare then, and with slacken'd speedCan view the country pleasant on all sides,And to kind salutation give good heed:I ride as one who for his pleasure rides,And stroke the neck of my delighted steed,And seek what cheer the village inn provides.

38An idle June day on the sunny Thames,Floating or rowing as our fancy led,Now in the high beams basking as we sped,Now in green shade gliding by mirror'd stems;By lock and weir and isle, and many a spotOf memoried pleasure, glad with strength and skill,Friendship, good wine, and mirth, that serve not ill The heavenly Muse, tho' she requite them not: I would have life--thou saidst--all as this day,Simple enjoyment calm in its excess,With not a grief to cloud, and not a rayOf passion overhot my peace to oppress;With no ambition to reproach delay,Nor rapture to disturb its happiness.

39A man that sees by chance his picture, madeAs once a child he was, handling some toy,Will gaze to find his spirit within the boy,Yet hath no secret with the soul pourtray'd:He cannot think the simple thought which play'dUpon those features then so frank and coy;'Tis his, yet oh! not his: and o'er the joyHis fatherly pity bends in tears dismay'd. Proud of his prime maybe he stand at best,And lightly wear his strength, or aim it high,In knowledge, skill and courage self-possest:--Yet in the pictured face a charm doth lie,The one thing lost more worth than all the rest,Which seeing, he fears to say This child was I.

40Tears of love, tears of joy and tears of care,Comforting tears that fell uncomforted,Tears o'er the new-born, tears beside the dead,Tears of hope, pride and pity, trust and prayer,Tears of contrition; all tears whatsoe'erOf tenderness or kindness had she shedWho here is pictured, ere upon her headThe fine gold might be turn'd to silver there. The smile that charm'd the father hath given placeUnto the furrow'd care wrought by the son;But virtue hath transform'd all change to grace:So that I praise the artist, who hath doneA portrait, for my worship, of the faceWon by the heart my father's heart that won.

41If I could but forget and not recallSo well my time of pleasure and of play,When ancient nature was all new and gay,Light as the fashion that doth last enthrall,--Ah mighty nature, when my heart was small,Nor dream'd what fearful searchings underlayThe flowers and leafy ecstasy of May,The breathing summer sloth, the scented fall: Could I forget, then were the fight not hard,Press'd in the mêlée of accursed things,Having such help in love and such reward:But that 'tis I who once--'tis this that stings--Once dwelt within the gate that angels guard,Where yet I'd be had I but heavenly wings.

42When I see childhood on the threshold seizeThe prize of life from age and likelihood,I mourn time's change that will not be withstood,Thinking how Christ said Be like one of these.For in the forest among many treesScarce one in all is found that hath made goodThe virgin pattern of its slender wood,That courtesied in joy to every breeze; But scath'd, but knotted trunks that raise on highTheir arms in stiff contortion, strain'd and bareWhose patriarchal crowns in sorrow sigh.So, little children, ye--nay nay, ye ne'erFrom me shall learn how sure the change and nigh,When ye shall share our strength and mourn to share.

43When parch'd with thirst, astray on sultry sandThe traveller faints, upon his closing earSteals a fantastic music: he may hearThe babbling fountain of his native land.Before his eyes the vision seems to stand,Where at its terraced brink the maids appear,Who fill their deep urns at its waters clear,And not refuse the help of lover's hand. O cruel jest--he cries, as some one flingsThe sparkling drops in sport or shew of ire--O shameless, O contempt of holy things.But never of their wanton play they tire,As not athirst they sit beside the springs,While he must quench in death his lost desire.

44The image of thy love, rising on darkAnd desperate days over my sullen sea,Wakens again fresh hope and peace in me,Gleaming above upon my groaning bark.Whate'er my sorrow be, I then may harkA loving voice: whate'er my terror be,This heavenly comfort still I win from thee,To shine my lodestar that wert once my mark. Prodigal nature makes us but to tasteOne perfect joy, which given she niggard grows;And lest her precious gift should run to waste,Adds to its loss a thousand lesser woes:So to the memory of the gift that gracedHer hand, her graceless hand more grace bestows.

45In this neglected, ruin'd edificeOf works unperfected and broken schemes,Where is the promise of my early dreams,The smile of beauty and the pearl of price?No charm is left now that could once enticeWind-wavering fortune from her golden streams,And full in flight decrepit purpose seems,Trailing the banner of his old device. Within the house a frore and numbing airHas chill'd endeavour: sickly memories reignIn every room, and ghosts are on the stair:And hope behind the dusty window-paneWatches the days go by, and bow'd with careForecasts her last reproach and mortal stain.

46Once I would say, before thy vision came,My joy, my life, my love, and with some kindOf knowledge speak, and think I knew my mindOf heaven and hope, and each word hit its aim.Whate'er their sounds be, now all mean the same,Denoting each the fair that none can find;Or if I say them, 'tis as one long blindForgets the sights that he was used to name. Now if men speak of love, 'tis not my love;Nor are their hopes nor joys mine, nor their lifeOf praise the life that I think honour of:Nay tho' they turn from house and child and wifeAnd self, and in the thought of heaven aboveHold, as do I, all mortal things at strife.

47Since then 'tis only pity looking back,Fear looking forward, and the busy mindWill in one woeful moment more upwindThan lifelong years unroll of bitter or black;What is man's privilege, his hoarding knackOf memory with foreboding so combined,Whereby he comes to dream he hath of kindThe perpetuity which all things lack?

Which but to hope is doubtful joy, to haveBeing a continuance of what, alas,We mourn, and scarcely hear with to the grave;Or something so unknown that it o'erpassThe thought of comfort, and the sense that gaveCannot consider it thro' any glass.

48Come gentle sleep, I woo thee: come and takeNot now the child into thine arms, from frightComposed by drowsy tune and shaded light,Whom ignorant of thee thou didst nurse and make;Nor now the boy, who scorn'd thee for the sakeOf growing knowledge or mysterious night,Tho' with fatigue thou didst his limbs invite,And heavily weigh the eyes that would not wake; No, nor the man severe, who from his bestFailing, alert fled to thee, that his breath,Blood, force and fire should come at morn redrest;But me; from whom thy comfort tarrieth,For all my wakeful prayer sent without restTo thee, O shew and shadow of my death.

49The spirit's eager sense for sad or gayFilleth with what he will our vessel full:Be joy his bent, he waiteth not joy's dayBut like a child at any toy will pull:If sorrow, he will weep for fancy's sake,And spoil heaven's plenty with forbidden care.What fortune most denies we slave to take;Nor can fate load us more than we can bear. Since pleasure with the having disappeareth,He who hath least in hand hath most at heart,While he keep hope: as he who alway fearethA grief that never comes hath yet the smart;And heavier far is our self-wrought distress,For when God sendeth sorrow, it doth bless.

50The world comes not to an end: her city-hivesSwarm with the tokens of a changeless trade,With rolling wheel, driver and flagging jade,Rich men and beggars, children, priests and wives.New homes on old are set, as lives on lives;Invention with invention overlaid:But still or tool or toy or book or bladeShaped for the hand, that holds and toils and strives. The men to-day toil as their fathers taught,With little better'd means; for works dependOn works and overlap, and thought on thought:And thro' all change the smiles of hope amendThe weariest face, the same love changed in nought:In this thing too the world comes not to an end.

51O my uncared-for songs, what are ye worth,That in my secret book with so much careI write you, this one here and that one there,Marking the time and order of your birth?How, with a fancy so unkind to mirth,A sense so hard, a style so worn and bare,Look ye for any welcome anywhereFrom any shelf or heart-home on the earth? Should others ask you this, say then I yearn'dTo write you such as once, when I was young,Finding I should have loved and thereto turn'd.'Twere something yet to live again amongThe gentle youth beloved, and where I learn'dMy art, be there remember'd for my song.

52Who takes the census of the living dead,Ere the day come when memory shall o'ercrowdThe kingdom of their fame, and for that proudAnd airy people find no room nor stead?Ere hoarding Time, that ever thrusteth backThe fairest treasures of his ancient store,Better with best confound, so he may packHis greedy gatherings closer, more and more? Let the true Muse rewrite her sullied page,And purge her story of the men of hate,That they go dirgeless down to Satan's rageWith all else foul, deform'd and miscreate:She hath full toil to keep the names of loveHonour'd on earth, as they are bright above.

53I heard great Hector sounding war's alarms,Where thro' the listless ghosts chiding he strode,As tho' the Greeks besieged his last abode,And he his Troy's hope still, her king-at-arms.But on those gentle meads, which Lethe charmsWith weary oblivion, his passion glow'dLike the cold night-worm's candle, and only show'dSuch mimic flame as neither heats nor harms. 'Twas plain to read, even by those shadows quaint,How rude catastrophe had dim'd his day,And blighted all his cheer with stern complaint:To arms! to arms! what more the voice would sayWas swallow'd in the valleys, and grew faintUpon the thin air, as he pass'd away.

54Since not the enamour'd sun with glance more fondKisses the foliage of his sacred tree,Than doth my waking thought arise on thee,Loving none near thee, like thee nor beyond;Nay, since I am sworn thy slave, and in the bondIs writ my promise of eternitySince to such high hope thou'st encouraged me,That if thou look but from me I despond; Since thou'rt my all in all, O think of this:Think of the dedication of my youth:Think of my loyalty, my joy, my bliss:Think of my sorrow, my despair and ruth,My sheer annihilation if I miss:Think--if thou shouldst be false--think of thy truth.

55These meagre rhymes, which a returning moodSometimes o'errateth, I as oft despise;And knowing them illnatured, stiff and rude,See them as others with contemptuous eyes.Nay, and I wonder less at God's respectFor man, a minim jot in time and space,Than at the soaring faith of His elect,That gift of gifts, the comfort of His grace. O truth unsearchable, O heavenly love,Most infinitely tender, so to touchThe work that we can meanly reckon of:Surely--I say--we are favour'd overmuch.But of this wonder, what doth most amazeIs that we know our love is held for praise.

56Beauty sat with me all the summer day,Awaiting the sure triumph of her eye;Nor mark'd I till we parted, how, hard by,Love in her train stood ready for his prey.She, as too proud to join herself the fray,Trusting too much to her divine ally,When she saw victory tarry, chid him--"WhyDost thou not at one stroke this rebel slay?" Then generous Love, who holds my heart in fee,Told of our ancient truce: so from the fightWe straight withdrew our forces, all the three.Baffled but not dishearten'd she took flightScheming new tactics: Love came home with me,And prompts my measured verses as I write.

57In autumn moonlight, when the white air wanIs fragrant in the wake of summer hence,'Tis sweet to sit entranced, and muse thereonIn melancholy and godlike indolence:When the proud spirit, lull'd by mortal primeTo fond pretence of immortality,Vieweth all moments from the birth of time,All things whate'er have been or yet shall be. And like the garden, where the year is spent,The ruin of old life is full of yearning,Mingling poetic rapture of lamentWith flowers and sunshine of spring's sure returning;Only in visions of the white air wanBy godlike fancy seized and dwelt upon.

58When first I saw thee, dearest, if I sayThe spells that conjure back the hour and place,And evermore I look upon thy face,As in the spring of years long pass'd away;No fading of thy beauty's rich array,No detriment of age on thee I trace,But time's defeat written in spoils of grace,From rivals robb'd, whom thou didst pity and slay. So hath thy growth been, thus thy faith is true,Unchanged in change, still to my growing sense,To life's desire the same, and nothing new:But as thou wert in dream and prescienceAt love's arising, now thou stand'st to viewIn the broad noon of his magnificence.

59'Twas on the very day winter took leaveOf those fair fields I love, when to the skiesThe fragrant Earth was smiling in surpriseAt that her heaven-descended, quick reprieve,I wander'd forth my sorrow to relieveYet walk'd amid sweet pleasure in such wiseAs Adam went alone in Paradise,Before God of His pity fashion'd Eve. And out of tune with all the joy aroundI laid me down beneath a flowering tree,And o'er my senses crept a sleep profound;In which it seem'd that thou wert given to me,Rending my body, where with hurried soundI feel my heart beat, when I think of thee.

61The dark and serious angel, who so longVex'd his immortal strength in charge of me,Hath smiled for joy and fled in libertyTo take his pastime with the peerless throng.Oft had I done his noble keeping wrong,Wounding his heart to wonder what might beGod's purpose in a soul of such degree;And there he had left me but for mandate strong. But seeing thee with me now, his task at closeHe knoweth, and wherefore he was bid to stay,And work confusion of so many foes:The thanks that he doth look for, here I pay,Yet fear some heavenly envy, as he goesUnto what great reward I cannot say.

62I will be what God made me, nor protestAgainst the bent of genius in my time,That science of my friends robs all the best,While I love beauty, and was born to rhyme.Be they our mighty men, and let me dwellIn shadow among the mighty shades of old,With love's forsaken palace for my cell;Whence I look forth and all the world behold, And say, These better days, in best things worse,This bastardy of time's magnificence,Will mend in fashion and throw off the curse,To crown new love with higher excellence.Curs'd tho' I be to live my life alone,My toil is for man's joy, his joy my own.

63I live on hope and that I think do allWho come into this world, and since I seeMyself in swim with such good company,I take my comfort whatsoe'er befall.I abide and abide, as if more stout and tallMy spirit would grow by waiting like a treeAnd, clear of others' toil, it pleaseth meIn dreams their quick ambition to forestall And if thro' careless eagerness I slideTo some accomplishment, I give my voiceStill to desire, and in desire abide.I have no stake abroad; if I rejoiceIn what is done or doing, I confideNeither to friend nor foe my secret choice.

64Ye blessed saints, that now in heaven enjoyThe purchase of those tears, the world's disdain,Doth Love still with his war your peace annoy,Or hath Death freed you from his ancient pain?Have ye no springtide, and no burst of MayIn flowers and leafy trees, when solemn nightPants with love-music, and the holy dayBreaks on the ear with songs of heavenly light? What make ye and what strive for? keep ye thoughtOf us, or in new excellence divineIs old forgot? or do ye count for noughtWhat the Greek did and what the Florentine?We keep your memories well : O in your storeLive not our best joys treasured evermore?

65Ah heavenly joy But who hath ever heard,Who hath seen joy, or who shall ever findJoy's language? There is neither speech nor wordNought but itself to teach it to mankind.Scarce in our twenty thousand painful daysWe may touch something: but there lives--beyondThe best of art, or nature's kindest phase--The hope whereof our spirit is fain and fond: The cause of beauty given to man's desiresWrit in the expectancy of starry skies,The faith which gloweth in our fleeting fires,The aim of all the good that here we prize;Which but to love, pursue and pray for wellMaketh earth heaven, and to forget it, hell.

66My wearied heart, whenever, after all,Its loves and yearnings shall be told complete,When gentle death shall bid it cease to beat,And from all dear illusions disenthrall:However then thou shalt appear to callMy fearful heart, since down at others' feetIt bade me kneel so oft, I'll not retreatFrom thee, nor fear before thy feet to fall. And I shall say, "Receive this loving heartWhich err'd in sorrow only; and in sinTook no delight; but being forced apartFrom thee, without thee hoping thee to win,Most prized what most thou madest as thou artOn earth, till heaven were open to enter in."

67Dreary was winter, wet with changeful stingOf clinging snowfall and fast-flying frost;And bitterer northwinds then withheld the spring,That dallied with her promise till 'twas lost.A sunless and half-hearted summer drown'dThe flowers in needful and unwelcom'd rain;And Autumn with a sad smile fled uncrown'dFrom fruitless orchards and unripen'd grain. But could the skies of this most desolate yearIn its last month learn with our love to glow,Men yet should rank its cloudless atmosphereAbove the sunsets of five years ago:Of my great praise too part should be its own,Now reckon'd peerless for thy love alone

69Eternal Father, who didst all create,In whom we live, and to whose bosom move,To all men be Thy name known, which is Love,Till its loud praises sound at heaven's high gate.Perfect Thy kingdom in our passing state,That here on earth Thou may'st as well approveOur service, as Thou ownest theirs above,Whose joy we echo and in pain await.

Grant body and soul each day their daily breadAnd should in spite of grace fresh woe begin,Even as our anger soon is past and deadBe Thy remembrance mortal of our sin:By Thee in paths of peace Thy sheep be led,And in the vale of terror comforted.

Sonnet 17 - My poet, thou canst touch on all the notes

XVII

My poet, thou canst touch on all the notesGod set between his After and Before,And strike up and strike off the general roarOf the rushing worlds a melody that floatsIn a serene air purely. AntidotesOf medicated music, answering forMankind's forlornest uses, thou canst pourFrom thence into their ears. God's will devotesThine to such ends, and mine to wait on thine.How, Dearest, wilt thou have me for most use?A hope, to sing by gladly? or a fineSad memory, with thy songs to interfuse?A shade, in which to sing—of palm or pine?A grave, on which to rest from singing? Choose.

Thou whose spell can raise the dead

IThou whose spell can raise the dead, Bid the prophet's form appear."Samuel, raise thy buried head! "King, behold the phantom seer!"Earth yawn'd; he stood the centre of a cloud:Light changed its hue, retiring from his shroud.Death stood all glassy in the fixed eye:His hand was withered, and his veins were dry;His foot, in bony whiteness, glitter'd there,Shrunken and sinewless, and ghastly bare;From lips that moved not and unbreathing frame,Like cavern'd winds the hollow acccents came.Saul saw, and fell to earth, as falls the oak,At once, and blasted by the thunder-stroke.

II"Why is my sleep disquieted?"Who is he that calls the dead?"Is it thou, Oh King? Behold"Bloodless are these limbs, and cold:"Such are mine; and such shall be"Thine, to-morrow, when with me:"Ere the coming day is done,"Such shalt thou be, such thy son."Fare thee well, but for a day,"Then we mix our mouldering clay."Thou, thy race, lie pale and low,"Pierced by shafts of many a bow;"And the falchion by thy side,"To thy heart, thy hand shall guide:"Crownless, breathless, headless fall,"Son and sire, the house of Saul!"

The Reprieve

A MOMENT since, he stood unmoved--alone; Courage and thought on his resolv&emacr;d brow; But hope is quivering in the broken tone, Whose bitter anguish seems to shake him now: Her light foot woke no echo as it came, The rustling robe her sudden swiftness told; She pleads for one who dies a death of shame; She pleads--for agony and love are bold.

'Oh! hear me, thou, who in the sunshine's glare So calmly waitest till the warning bell Shall of the closing hour of his despair In gloomy notes of muffled triumph tell.

Let him not die! Avenging Heaven is just; Thine, a like fate in after years may be: Thy forfeit head may gasping bite the dust, While those thou lovest, plead in vain for thee! Thou smilest sternly: thou could'st well brave death; Hast braved it often on the tented field. So fought my hero on th' ensanguined heath, With desperate strength, that knew not how to yield: But oh! the death whose punctual hour is set, And waited for mid lingering thoughts of pain; Where no excitement bids the heart forget, And skill and courage are alike in vain; Who shall find strength for that?--Oh! man, to whom Fate, chance, or what thou wilt, hath given this hour-- Upon whose will depends his dreaded doom-- Doth it not awe thee, thinking of thy power? In the wide battle's hot and furious rage, Where the mix'd banners flutter to and fro, Where all alike the desperate combat wage, One of a thousand swords may pierce him through: But, now, his life is in thy single hand: To thee the strange and startling power is given-- And thou shalt answer for this day's command When ye stand face to face in God's own Heaven.

Bear with me! pardon me this sudden start! My words are bitter, for my heart is sore; And oh! dark soldier of the iron heart, Fain would I learn the speech should touch thee more! He hath a mother--age hath dimm'd her sight-- But when his quick returning step comes nigh, She smiles, as though she saw a sudden light, And turns to bless him with a stifled sigh. When to her arms a lonely wretch I go, And she doth ask for him, the true and the brave, While on her cheek faint smiles of welcome glow, How shall I answer 'he is in the grave!' He hath a little son--a mirthful boy, Whose coral lips with ready smiles are curl'd; Wilt thou quench all the spring-time of his joy, And leave him orphan in a friendless world? Hast thou no children?--Do no visions come, When the low night-wind through the poplar grieves-- Echoes of farewell voices--sounds of home-- For which thy busy day no leisure leaves? Some one doth love thee--some one thou dost love-- (For such the blessed lot of all on earth,) Some one to whom thy thoughts oft fondly rove, The sharer of thy sorrows and thy mirth;

Who with dim weeping eyes, and thoughts that burn, Sees thy proud form lead forth th' embattled host; To whom 'a victory' speaks of thy return-- And 'a defeat' means only thou are lost! If such there be, (and on thy helm-worn brow Sternness, not cruelty, doth seem to reign,) Think it is she, who kneels before thee now, Her heart which bursts with agony of pain.

'Hark--'T is the warning stroke--his hour is come-- I hear the bell slow clanging on the air-- I hear the beating of the muffled drum-- Thou hast a moment yet to save and spare! Oh! when returning to thy native land, Greeted with grateful tears and loud acclaim; While gazing on thy homeward march they stand, And smiling children shout thy welcome name: How wilt thou bear the joyous village chimes, Whose ringing peals remind thee of to-day-- Will not my image haunt thee at those times? And my hoarse desperate voice seem yet to pray? When thy long term of bloody toil is past, And the hush'd trumpet calls no more to arms-- Will not his death thy tranquil brow o'ercast, And rob that peaceful hour of half its charms?

When thy child's mother bends thy lip to press, And her true hand lies clasp'd within thine own-- Will her low voice have perfect power to bless, Remembering me, the widow'd and the lone? When they embrace thee--when they welcome thee-- By all my hopes of Heaven, thy brow relents! Oh! sign the paper--let his life go free-- Give it me quick!'-- 'What ho! Raise her--the woman faints!'

The Princes' Ques -Part the Eighth

Now as it chanced, the day was almost spentWhen down the lonely mountain-side he went,The whitehaired man, the Prince that was; and ereHe won the silence of the valley whereThe city's many towers uprose, the gateWas closed against him, for the hour was late.So even as they that have not wherewithalTo roof them from the rain if it should fall,Upon the grassy ground this king's son lay,And slept till nigh the coming of the day.

But while as any vagabond he sleptOr outcast from the homes of men, there creptUnto him lying in such sorry sortA something fairer than the kingliest courtIn all the peopled world had witness of-Even the shadow of the throne of Love,That from a height beyond all height did creepAlong the pavement of the halls of sleep.O fair and wonderful! that shadow wasThe golden dream of dreams that came acrossHis youth, full half an hundred years before,And sent him wandering through the world. Once moreIn a lone boat that sails and oars had none,Midmost a land of summer and the sunWhere nothing was that was not fair to see,Adown a gliding river glided he,And saw the city that was built thereby,And saw the chariot of the queen draw nigh,And gazed upon her in the goodly street;Whereat he waked and rose upon his feet,Remembering the Vision of the Seer,And what the spirit spake unto his ear:'When in thy wanderings thou shalt dream once moreThe fateful dream thou haddest heretofore,That filled thy veins with longing as with wineTill all thy being brimm'd over-by that signThou mayest know thyself at last to beWithin the borders of his emperyWho hath the mystic emerald stone, whose gleamShall light thee to the country of thy dream.'

Then rose the heart within his heart and said:'O bitter scornful Fate, in days long deadI asked and thou denied'st mine asking: nowThe boon can no-wise profit me, and thouDost mock me with bestowal!' ThereuponHe fell to thinking of his youthhood gone,And wept. For now the goal, the longtime-sought,Was even at hand, 'but how shall I,' he thought,'I that am old and sad and hoary-haired,Enter the place for youth and love prepared?For in my veins the wellspring of desireHath failed, and in mine heart the golden fireBurneth no more for ever. I draw nearThe night that is about our day, and hearThe sighing of the darkness as I goWhose ancient secret there is none doth know.'

Ev'n so to his own heart he spake full sad,And many and bitter were the thoughts he hadOf days that were and days that were to be.But now the East was big with dawn, and heDrew nigh the city-gates and entered in,Ere yet the place remurmured with the dinOf voices and the tread of human feet;And going up the void and silent street,All in the chill gleam of the new-lit air,A Thought found way into his soul, and thereAbode and grew, and in brief while becameDesire, and quickened to a quenchless flame:And holding converse with himself, he said,'Though in my heart the heart's desire be dead,And can no more these time-stilled pulses move;Though Death were lovelier to these eyes than LoveYet would these eyes behold, or ere I pass,The land that mirror'd lay as in a glassIn the deep wells of dream. And her that isThe sunlight of that city of all bliss,Her would I fain see once with waking eyesWhom sleep hath rendered unto vision twice.And having seen her beauty I would goMy way, even to the river which doth flowFrom daylight unto darkness and the placeOf silence, where the ghosts are face to face.'

So mused the man, and evermore his thoughtGave him no peace. Wherefore next morn he soughtThe palace of the king, but on his wayTarried till nigh the middle of the dayIn talk with certain of the city-folk;Whereby he learned, if that were true they spoke,How that the king their lord was nigh distractWith torture of a strange disease that rackedEach day his anguished body more and more,Setting at naught the leeches and their lore.Which having heard he went before the king,Who sat upon his throne, deliveringJudgment, his body pierced the while with pain.And taking from his neck the charmèd chainWhich he had borne about him ever sinceThat morn miraculous, the unknown PrinceUpspake and said, 'O king, I hold withinMy hand a wonder-working medicineOf power to make thee whole if thou wilt deignSo to be healèd;' and he held the chainAloft, and straightway told unto the kingThe passing worth and wonder of the thing.

Then he that heard stretched forth a hand that shookWith sudden fever of half-hope, and tookThe chain, and turned it over in his handUntil his eyes had left no link unscanned.And on each separate link was character'dA language that no living ear had heard,Occult, of secret import, mystic, strange.Then said the king, 'What would'st thou in exchangeFor this the magic metal thou dost bring?'And the Prince answered him and said, 'O king,Even the emerald stone which some do callThe Emerald of the Virtues Mystical.'And they who thronged the hall of judgment wereAstonished at the stranger who could dareAsk such a boon; and some base mouths did curlWith sneers, churl whispering to his fellow churl,'Who could have deemed the man so covetous,So void of shame in his great greed?' For thusIt shall be ever underneath the sun,Each man believing that high hearts are noneWhose own is as the dust he treads on low.

But the king answered saying, 'Be it so.To-night this chain of iron shall be wornAbout my neck, and on the morrow-morn,If all the pain have left these limbs of mine,The guerdon thou demandest shall be thine.But if this torment still tormenteth me,Thy head and shoulders shall part company,And both be cast uncoffin'd to the worms.Open thy mouth and answer if these termsContent thee.' And aloud the Prince replied,'With these conditions I am satisfied:'Whereafter, rising from his knees, he wentOut from before the king, and was content.

Next morning, when the king awoke, I wisNo heart was lighter in the land than his;For all the grievous burden of his painsHad fall'n from off his limbs, and in his veinsUpleapt the glad new life, and the sick soulSeemed like its body all at once made whole.But hardly was the king uprisen beforeThere knock'd and entered at the chamber-doorHis chief physician (a right skilful leech,But given to hollow trickeries of speech,And artful ways and wiles) who said, 'O king,Be not deceived, I pray thee. One good thingComes of another, like from like. The weedBeareth not lilies, neither do apes breedAntelopes. Thou art healed of thy painNot by the wearing of an iron chain-An iron chain forsooth!'-(hereat he laughedAs 'twere a huge rare jest) 'but by the draughtWhich I prepared for thee with mine own handsFrom certain precious simples grown in landsIt irks me tell how many leagues away:Which medicine thou tookest yesterday.'

Then said the king, 'O false and jealous man,Who lovest better thine own praises thanThy master's welfare! Little 'tis to suchAs thou, that I should be made whole; but muchThat men should go before thee, trumpeting''Behold the man that cured our lord the king.''And he was sore displeased and in no moodTo hearken. But the chief physician stoodUnmoved amid this hail of kingly scorn,With meek face martyr-like, as who hath borneMuch in the name of Truth, and much can bear.And from the mouth of him false words and fairSo cunningly flowed that in a little whileThe royal frown became a royal smile,And the king hearkened to the leech and wasPersuaded. So that morn it came to passThat when the Prince appeared before the throneTo claim his rightful meed, the emerald stone,The king denied his title to receiveThe jewel, saying, 'Think'st thou I believeYon jingling chain hath healed my body? Nay;For whatsoever such as thou may sayI am not found so easy to beguile:As for the gem thou wouldest, this good whileIt hath adorned the crown I wear, nor shallThe stone be parted from the coronal.'

Scarce had the false king spoken when beholdThrough the high ceiling's goodly fretted goldA sudden shaft of lightning downward spedAnd smote the golden crown upon his head,Yea, melted ev'n as wax the golden crown.And from the molten metal there fell downA grassgreen Splendour, and the Emerald StoneTumbled from step to step before the throne,And lay all moveless at the Prince's feet!And the king sat upon his royal seatA dead king, marble-mute: but no man stirredOr spake: and only silence might be heard.

Then he before whose feet the gem did lieSaid not a word to any man thereby,But stooped and lifted it from off the floor,And passing outward from the open doorPut the mysterious jewel in his breastAnd went his way, none daring to molestThe stranger. For the whisper rose and ran,'Is not the lightning leaguèd with this man?'

For All The Seers And Seekers Out There

For all the seers and seekers out there, all you bright seeds on a blind wind looking for a vision of life you can root in and express yourselves like willows in the moonlightto the night creek nearby that listens when you cry out in mystical bliss at the surprise of waterlilies gathered at your feetto catch a taste of the same essence that makes you weep, deep inside, inside, inside, look there for paradise, where the stars are dazzled by your eyesthat don't fade away in the blazing like Venus at dusk.

Looking for the spirit with the spiritlike a breathless wind looking for the wind to give it mouth to mouth resuscitationis a snake with its tail in its mouth enchained to its own liberation. Is a candle in the sun living on borrowed lightwhen it's already well-provisioned with its own shining for the long nights in the heart of an unknown radiance within? Long nights on the high slopes of the world mountain you're sitting on alonelike a pauper with kingly second thoughts about abdicating the ancestral throne of your ego.

For you who are not stuck like a false idol the size of your thumbthrough a three and a half pound brain of starmud.

For you who are not voidbound by your freedom, or cower in the shadows of your solitude afraid to read the messages that flower under your doorsillfrom anonymous admirers passing in the hall.

For those of you who learned to read and write in an alphabet of loveletters waiting for a replythat could answer them all like a return address on the silence.

For you who have taken the splinters of a shattered mirror out of your eye and replaced them with stars that have gone on giving light long after the chandeliers of light-winged sorrows have stopped waltzing in three four time with their club-footed candles for the night.

Follow this goat bell up the high dangerous trails where even overcoming your fear of heights isn't enough courage to guarantee your footing and I'll show you the jewelled hoofs of the wild horseskicking up the dust of stars on the open plains of an inconceivable spiritual vastness where wishes are horsesand beggars do ride and you can hear the jingling of constellations like the wind-chimes of Spanish spursthat get under your skin where the spiritual junkies shoot up like selflessly motivated thorns of starlightpotent enough to keep them high for the rest of the lives on the antidote they derive like the milk of human kindness even from the toxic serums of the most dangerous mystical snakesthat have ever poled danced like a winged caduceus around the axis of the most habitable planet you've ever been inclined to.

Whether you're a blissed-out gardenia of God or just another double agent doing espionage for the Devil to see when the next whirlwind of revelationis going to sweep you up like a chimney spark into a maelstrom of cosmic events against your will, look at how the radiance shining out from the clear void of an unknown light source deep within you illuminates heaven like the moon in your windowas surely and truly as it does the prophetic skulls of hell.

And this is the point I've been missing and trying to make simultaneously throughout this poemlike a tattoo starred on my forehead that leads me like a lantern into deeper and darker spacesthan any abandoned shrine in a sacred wood I've ever existed in before like a swallow among the quake-proof columns of the trees.

We're all three-winged songbirds under the leaf-cluttered eaves of the temples we brought with us like spiritual refugeesoverstepping the bounds and borders of ourselves like prodigal sons and daughters on the thresholds of exile.

And each of us weaves, after our own fashion, on a loom of lunar wavelengths of shadows and light, a crown of thorns we leave with wings like the mangers of the earthbound killdeer and English skylarksafter we've cracked the koans of the cosmic eggs we were born from.

We fly away home like ladybirds and dragonflies whose house is on fire and kids are aloneto have it burned into us like a prison tattoothat enlightenment is just as white on the dark side, as it is black on the light.

And though you were to look like billions of fireflies for millions of lightyears, you'll never find enlightenment up ahead of you because it will never be found anywhere other than behind and beside youwhere it's always been from the beginningless beginning like a shadow that's been following you on the blind side of your third eye that set out the moment it first opened up to you like a flower to the starsto look for the other two like a shepherd looking for lost goats on the altarsof the unblooded sacrificial mountains of the moon.

You just have to look at the stars and feel them staring back at you on the insidewith the same inconceivable wonder at why and what you are as you return the light that was given to you back to them realizing every insight into the nature of life, every word, every star, every bird, firefly, everylighthouse and clocktower of the moon is a sign of mutual greeting that can't be ignored.

For those of you who cry for the earth that is moved by the same agony you are, as if you were born to be its tears, its wounds, its scars, to suffer like flowers for the beauty you aspire to.

For those of you whose seeing will become the substance of the world tomorrowthough you should lose your eyes for it todaylike apple-bloom, for the sake of the root of the light within.

For those of you who are always seeking the things that belong to all of us, the dreams the visions, the insights, the perfect expressionof what we have to say to the silence that's always listening to ustalking to ourselves like a sleepwalking stream or a wild grapevine putting out tendrils like Korans of Kufic script and Books of harvest Kells.

May your labour come to love you like a bad habit that's grown fond of you over the years because you made an art of your life that brought the merciless desert to tears to see how even a delusion or a mirage with a big enough heart and a taste for compassion that gives it an eye for how sublime beauty really is as deep as the watershed at the bottom of a wishing wellit turned into the moment it cried on behalf of everyone's efforts to make themselves in all the glory of their schemes, dreams and delusions streaming out behind them in victory parades put on by their own minds like the emperor's non-existent clothesfor knowing how to turn a defeat into a celebration, come true to life. The seeking life. The seeing life.

The just life like dry oak on a good fire. The life of thought that eventually forgets what there is to think about. The wasted life whose gifts were mistaken for flaws in its character, The anonymous life of a spiritual blood donor that sent a single red rose to a dead child and restored her back to life. Life returning to life like crocuses and killer whales through the ice, seeking itself out in every corner of our lives, and under the stones of our own starmud mindslodged in the earth like meteorites that once flashed across the sky like insightfrom an unknown radiant i in the eye sockets of prophetic skulls as if strange new life forms were going on in thereit knew nothing about and was dying to see. And who knows? Maybe even something unspeakably precious it thought was lost for good.

And most especially a life that feels life has shapeshifted it into the dupe of its own ideals, that all its disguises and deathmasks were removedlike painful tattoos only to reveal a rodeo clowndressed in a barrel with a red poppy for a cape in its hatto draw the bull away from the rider that's down.

To feel like a clown in all your actions to judge by the crowd's reactions, but to put your life on the line anywayas a funny kind of sacrifice that saves the heroyou risked as much to rescue, as he did to put you in harm's way when he faltered.

And you embodied the human condition with compassion, running away as a way of coming to the rescue, without realizing, as you laughed at yourself, it doesn't get anymore divine than that.Trying to get a smile out of the bull you're running before on someone else's behalfin a funny hat with an artificial floweris a sublime act of devotion and the truest form of worshipfrom the human divinity in each of us to another.

Because getting up after life's been struck to its knees, is how everything grows, even when its roots are watered by delusions and its butt gets kicked up into the grandstands of the amused demons and angels, that funny little dejected flower in a rodeo clown's hatthat steals the show like the Buddha's purse to buy the Buddha a horse to get back up on, regardless of what you, the bull, the Buddha, his purse, the horse or the thrown rider feel, still blossoms from the heart it's rooted in for real.

No more where Ocean's unseen boundLeaves a drear world of waters round,Between the howling gust, shall riseThe stifled captive's latest sighs!--No more shall suffocating deathSeize the pent victim's sinking breath;The pang of that convulsive hour,Reproaching man's insatiate power;Man! who to AFRIC'S shore has past,Relentless, as the annual blastThat sweeps the Western Isles, and flingsDestruction from its furious wings!--And woman, she, too weak to bearThe galling chain, the tainted air,--Of mind too feeble to sustainThe vast, accumulated pain,--No more, in desperation wild,Shall madly strain her gasping child;With all the mother at her soul,With eyes where tears have ceas'd to roll,Shall catch the livid infant's breath,Then sink in agonizing death!BRITAIN! the noble, blest decreeThat soothes despair, is fram'd by thee!Thy powerful arm has interpos'd,And one dire scene for ever clos'd;Its horror shall no more belongTo that foul drama, deep with wrong.O, first of EUROPE'S polish'd landsTo ease the captive's iron bands;Long, as thy glorious annals shine,This proud distinction shall be thine!Not first alone when valour leadsTo rush on danger's noblest deeds;When mercy calls thee to exploreA gloomy path, untrod before,Thy ardent spirit springs to heal,And, greatly gen'rous, dares to feel!--Valour is like the meteor's light,Whose partial flash leaves deeper night;While Mercy, like the lunar ray,Gilds the thick shade with softer day.Blest deed! that met consenting mindsIn all but those whom av'rice binds,--Who creep in interest's crooked ways,Nor ever pass her narrow maze;Or those whom hard indiff'rence steelsTo every pang another feels.For them has fortune round their bowersTwin'd, partial nymph! her lavish flowers;For them , from unsunn'd caves, she bringsHer summer ice; for them she springsTo climes where hotter suns produceThe richer fruit's delicious juice;While they , whom wasted blessings tire,Nor leave one want to feed desire,With cool, insulting ease demandWhy, for yon hopeless, captive band,Is ask'd, to mitigate despair,The mercy of the common air?

The boon of larger space to breathe,While coop'd that hollow deck beneath?A lengthen'd plank, on which to throwTheir shackled limbs, while fiercely glowThe beams direct, that on each headThe fury of contagion shed?--And dare presumptuous, guilty man,Load with offence his fleeting span?Deform creation with the gloomOf crimes that blot its cheerful bloom?Darken a work so perfect made,And cast the universe in shade?--Alas! to AFRIC'S fetter'd raceCreation wears no form of grace!To them earth's pleasant vales are foundA blasted waste, a sterile bound;Where the poor wand'rer must sustainThe load of unremitted pain;A region in whose ample scopeHis eye discerns no gleam of hope;Where thought no kind asylum knowsOn which its anguish may repose;But death, that to the ravag'd breastComes not in shapes of terror drest;Points to green hills where freedom roves,And minds renew their former loves;Or, hov'ring in the troubled air,Hangs the fierce spectre of Despair;Whose soul abhors the gift of life,Who stedfast grasps the reeking knife,Bids the charg'd heart in torrents bleed,And smiles in frenzy at the deed!Ye noble minds! who o'er a skyWhere clouds are roll'd, and tempests fly,Have bid the lambent lustre playOf one pure, lovely, azure ray;O, far diffuse its op'ning bloom,And the wide Hemisphere illume!Ye, who one bitter drop have drain'dFrom slav'ry's cup, with horror stain'd,O, let no fatal dregs be found,But dash her chalice on the ground,While still she links her impious chain,And calculates the price of pain;Weighs agony in sordid scales,And marks if death or life prevails;Decides how near the mangling scourgeMay to the grave its victim urge,--Yet for awhile, with prudent care,The half-worn wretch, if useful, spare;And speculates, with skill refin'd,How deep a wound will stab the mind;How far the spirit can endureCalamity, that hopes no cure!--Ye! who can selfish cares forego,To pity those which others know,--As light that from its centre straysTo glad all nature with its rays,--O, ease the pangs ye stoop to share,And rescue millions from despair!--For you, while morn in graces gayWakes the fresh bloom of op'ning day,Gilds with her purple light your dome,Renewing all the joys of home,--Of that dear shed which first ye knew,Where first the sweet affections grew;Whose charm alike the heart can draw,If form'd of marble or of straw;Whether the voice of pleasure calls,And gladness echoes through its walls,Or to its hallow'd roof we flyWith those we love to pour the sigh;The load of mingled pain to bear,And soften every pang we share!--Ah, think how desolate his state,How he the cheerful light must hate,Whom, sever'd from his native soil,The morning wakes to fruitless toilTo labours hope shall never cheer,Or fond domestic joy endear!

Poor wretch! on whose despairing eyesHis cherish'd home shall never rise!Condemn'd, severe extreme, to liveWhen all is fled that life can give:--And ah, the blessings valued mostBy human minds, are blessings lost!Unlike the objects of the eye,Enlarging as we bring them nigh;Our joys at distance strike the breast,And seem diminish'd when possest.Who from his far-divided shoreThe half-expiring captive bore?Those whom the traffic of their raceHas robb'd of every human grace;Whose harden'd souls no more retainImpressions nature stamp'd in vain:As streams that once the landscape gaveReflected on the trembling wave,Their substance change when lock'd in frost,And rest in dead contraction lost;Who view, unmoved, the look that tellsThe pang that in the bosom dwells;Heed not the nerves that terror shakes,The heart convulsive anguish breaks;The shriek that would their crimes upbraid,But deem despair a part of trade.Such only for detested gainThe barb'rous commerce would maintain;The gen'rous sailor, he who daresAll forms of danger, while he bearsThe British flag o'er sultry seas,And spreads it on the Polar breeze;He to whose guardian arm we oweEach blessing that the happy know;Whatever charms the soften'd heart,Each cultur'd grace, each finer art,E'en thine, most lovely of the train!Sweet Poetry, thy heav'n-taught strain,His breast, where nobler passions burn,In honest poverty, would spurnThe wealth oppression can bestow,And scorn to wound a fetter'd foe!True courage in the unconquered soulYields to Compassion's mild control;As, the resisting frame of steelThe magnet's secret force can feel.When borne at length to Western lands,Chain'd on the beach the captive stands,Where Man, dire merchandize! is sold,And barter'd life is paid for gold!In mute affliction, see him tryTo read his new possessor's eye;If one blest glance of mercy there,One half-form'd tear may check despair!Ah, if that eye with sorrow seesHis languid look, his quiv'ring knees,Those limbs which scarce their load sustain,That form consum'd in wasting pain,Such sorrow fills his ruthless eyeWho sees the lamb he doom'd to die;In pining sickness yield his life,And thus elude the sharpen'd knife.Or if where savage habit steelsThe vulgar mind, one bosom feelsThe sacred claim of helpless woe--If pity in that soil can grow!Yet why on one poor chance must restThe int'rest of a kindred breast?Why yield to passion's wayward lawsHumanity's devoted cause?--Ah ye, who one fix'd purpose own,Whose untir'd aim is self alone;Who think in gold the essence liesFrom which extracted bliss shall rise;Does fleeting life proportion bearTo all the wealth ye heap with care?When soon your days in rapid flightShall sink in death's terrific night,Then seize the moments in your power,To Mercy consecrate the hour!Risk something in her cause at last,And thus atone for all the past.Does avarice, your god, delightWith agony to feast his sight?

Does he require that victims slain,And human blood his altars stain?--Ah, not alone of power possestTo check each virtue of the breast:As when the numbing frosts ariseThe charm of vegetation dies;His sway the harden'd bosom leadsTo cruelty's remorseless deeds;Like the blue lightning, when it springsWith fury on its livid wings,Darts to its goal with baleful force,Nor heeds that ruin marks its course!O, Eloquence! prevailing art!Whose force can chain the list'ning heart;The throb of sympathy inspire,And kindle every great desire;With magic energy control,And reign the sov'reign of the soul!That dreams, while all its passions swell,It shares the power it feels so well:As visual objects seem possestOf those clear hues by light imprest.O, skill'd in every grace to charm,To soften, to appal, to warm,--Fill with thy noblest rage the breast,Bid on those lips thy spirit rest,That shall, in Britain's Senate, traceThe wrongs of AFRIC'S captive race!--But Fancy o'er the tale of woeIn vain one heighten'd tint would throw;For ah, the truth is all we guessOf anguish in its last excess!Fancy may dress in deeper shadeThe storm that hangs along the glade;Spreads o'er the ruffled stream its wing,And chills awhile the flowers of spring;But where the wint'ry tempests sweepIn madness o'er the darken'd deep,--Where the wild surge, the raging wave,Point to the hopeless wretch a grave;And death surrounds the threat'ning shore--Can fancy add one horror more?--Lov'd BRITAIN ! whose protecting hand,Stretch'd o'er the globe, on AFRIC'S strandThe honour'd base of freedom lays,Soon, soon the finish'd fabric raise!And when surrounding realms would frame,Touch'd with a spark of gen'rous flame,Some pure, ennobling, great design,Some lofty act, almost divine,Which earth may hail with rapture high,And heav'n may view with fav'ring eye,--Teach them to make all nature free,And shine by emulating thee!